Taste Your Beating Heart
by ForgingIngenuity
Summary: Stiles had it all figured out, the answer to all of their problems. That is until Derek has him pinned to the floor and taking a nibble out of his neck. They become more deeply bonded than anticipated, causing Stiles to become a bigger player in the war against the Hunters. Perhaps, even a sacrificial pawn for what the Argents are really after. Derek's head.
1. Drag My Teeth

**Salutations! Right off the bat, this is my first fanfiction, I'll admit it. I have done a lot of writing but never a fanfiction. But then Sterek came all. I'm sure you can understand. **

**Author notes can be dull, so I'll keep it quick with information you need to know. This is based after episode 9 "Party Guessed," but one important thing to know is I am taking creative liberties (hence, fanfiction) but will try my best to keep some things canon to the series. I will frequent dialogue and scenes from the episodes that involve our two leading gentlemen, but will add a different dimension to follow the plot of this story. Oh, and Peter is dead. I decided I didn't want to deal with him because there is enough layers to deal with as it is. Also, Stiles speculation at the beginning of the story about Matt and Jackson is actually rambles on my own thoughts before episode 10 "Fury," the inaccuracy of it will be addressed as the story continues.**

**There are some others things I feel the need to explain but this will do you for now. Please enjoy!**

**I disclaim any ownership to Teen Wolf, it rests in the capable and talented hands of Jeff Davis.**

Taste Your Beating Heart

Drag My Teeth

There is a good reason Stiles is trekking through the wood in the middle of the night; just like every time before this. But, of course, Stiles has conveniently forgot what usually occurs on said midnight strolls. This time, however, he has a good reason, no a _very_ good reason. What he holds in his head could quite possibly be the answer to all their problems. It was an epiphany really. He had been at home, snuggled under a mountain of soft sheets while the graces of sleep had been granting him utter blissfulness when – bam! Brilliance.

It had been a couple of days since Lydia's party had gone from rad to completely and terribly bad. He is still trying to figure out what went wrong there. Allison has all but ceased communication with Scott since word about her mother committing herself no longer one of the living. They say it was from depression. Stiles thinks otherwise. But it isn't his place to comment, and he understands more than anyone the empty hole Allison has probably fallen into and knows how long it can take to crawl back out of. So, Stiles has invoked a vow of silence on the matter.

But no, tonight is about what Scott had seen amongst the sea of raging, funny-juiced teenagers bolting from Lydia's house like they had unearthed Coach Finstock's underwear drawer – Matt. Matt and a kanima-ed out Jackson apparently were looking all buddy-buddy in a menacing I-am-going-to-kill-you kind of way.

While laying motionless on his bed, Stiles had been slapped with a big fat epiphany. The '06 swim team, Matt not being able to swim, the kanima being afraid of water, Jackson _saving_ Matt, Jackson being the captain of the swim team – and okay, there are some holes but somehow Matt is connected to the '06 swim team killings and controlling Jackson. Stiles remembers Jackson saying in that heart-attack inducing interrogation at the Rave, "_they_ had _killed _me," so maybe the '06 swim team had drowned someone, making them murders, which are prime targets for a kanima's hit list. And with Jackson being the head of the swim team it is just a healthy dose of irony. Stiles isn't above believing Matt could be possessed by some vengeful spirit. By now, ghosts seem totally normal in this strange land he has been catapulted into.

As far as awesomeness goes, Stiles has hit the high score. He should get a Nobel Prize or maybe a statue of himself, at least. With Scott trying (failing) to console Allison, and Derek still licking his wounds over nearly losing control of his pack on the night of the full moon (as Stiles was told by Scott, which prompted a well meaning fit of laughter celebrating the blunder of the great and powerful Alpha), Stiles has had a lot of alone time to contemplate these daunting issues.

Needless to say, Stiles finds himself meeting tree roots and unyielding rocks with the tender parts of his toes in the middle of the night-blanketed forest to tell Mr. Sourwolf himself of his revelation. He had called Scott but no answer was received on Stiles's end so Stiles texted him to get his werewolf ass to Derek's house ASAP. With this discovery it could not wait until morning, besides Stiles is eager to gloat.

Derek may or may not know that Stiles is calling an emergency meeting at his house depending on if he regularly checks his voice mail. Stiles knows him well enough that Derek wouldn't pick up the phone with him being the one calling, but maybe there is an annoying flashing light that will persuade Derek into listening to Stiles's well thought out message. Maybe. Maybe is one of Derek's many middle names. Maybe, Dangerous, Brooding, Frowny, Rippling Muscles, etc…

With several stumbles, a few near tumbles, and one good ol' fashion face plant into the bosom of Mother Earth, Stiles has made it to Derek's house. His jeep, you may wonder, is still on the road because one of the headlights is out and the other one is uncomfortably dim, and Stiles doesn't want to go driving through an unpredictable forest at night.

He walks up the rotting steps and doesn't stop to bother with knocking. Derek probably already knows he is here and is waiting in a dark corner so he can jump out and scare Stiles.

"Hey Derek! I know it's past your bedtime, but you are going to love me forever once you hear what I figured out!" Stiles preambles because it is his time to shine. He scopes out the foyer and peers up the staircase, and then decides Derek must be waiting in the basement for him. He is a little surprised that Erica, Boyd, or Isaac is not up here to greet him like the good, obedient puppies that they are. Then again, they might be punished for acting naughty on the night of the full moon. Stiles grins at the image of the three of them roped to the wall by (heavy duty) dog leashes.

Stiles starts to the basement door when suddenly he notices a familiar pair of sinister red eyes lurking in the doorway to the kitchen.

"There you are. Is Scott here yet, cause I told him to be here? No? Well, I'm just going to tell you instead of waiting for him because I, my wolfy friend, am a genius. I know you knew this, but I have undisputable proof in case you doubted me. It's about Jackson and that creep Matt, and the swim team, and you don't look like you are listening to me." Stiles halts when he realizes those sinister red eyes haven't moved and are looking more sinister the more he keeps talking.

"Hey man, why don't you come out of the dark and into the light? I know you have a thing for showing off your Alpha-ness but this is actually important. I know, weird, but give me some credit." Stiles gestures with his hands and takes a step forward. A step he really shouldn't have taken.

Derek does indeed remove himself from his shadowy hiding spot, but he doesn't look right. His features are wolf-ed out.

"Okay, maybe this_ is_ a bad time. I can come back tomorrow." Stiles fumbles back, and Derek growls. Not like an I-am-crabby-at-you growl, but an I-am-a-werewolf-fear-me growl.

"Okay, you're the boss." Stiles holds up his hands like he is about to be arrested as Derek creeps out, hunched over but not quite walking on his hands and feet. He is growling within the hollow basin of his chest, rumbling like a far off storm. Those crimson eyes of his are blazing and his fangs are glinting. He approaches Stiles until he is invading his personal space. Stiles turns his head to the side to keep Derek's fangs from tearing off his face but just realizes he is giving him better access to his carotid artery. Well, maybe it'll just make it quicker? Hopefully.

"I'm sorry that I woke you from your beauty sleep, I didn't mean too. Well, I did, but I regret it, and I am more than happy to get out of your hair." Stiles whispers and glances at Derek still butting into his bubble. Derek's eyes flicker up to meet Stiles's, making the human's heart thump like a rabbit warning danger. Derek snarls and forces Stiles to the ground with a powerful slam of his clawed hand.

Stiles grunts when his backside gracelessly hits the wood floor. He flails a bit, wanting to get up, afraid of being underneath the mercy of an Alpha werewolf, but it is too late. Derek is down on all fours and looming over him. Stiles flattens, trying to get sucked in by the flooring like Johnny Depp in _A Nightmare on Elm Street_ with his bed.

"Derek, come on, if you are trying to be funny, which you aren't, so you are probably just trying to prove a point, I completely get it. I'll leave. I'm sorry. I'll never bother you again." Derek is literally breathing down his neck. His claws are inches from his head. He can hear them clicking against the wood. Stiles is sweating beneath his flannel shirt and jeans from Derek's homicidal body heat. Where the hell is Scott's werewolf ass when he needs him!?

Derek then begins to… inhale. Not like he is breathing to get oxygen. More like he is breathing in a scent. He pushes his nose into Stiles's shirt, nudging against the flannel and poking at the band t-shirt underneath. Stiles flinches when he feels a fang hook the fabric. He isn't sure if he should be more afraid of those fangs or the mere fact that Derek is _smelling_ him. What the hell? Was Derek high off some of concoction of wolfsbane? Where the hell is the furry trio? Shouldn't they be monitoring their master's craziness right now, or are they passed out in the basement? Or maybe they are… Stiles sucks in his own breath when Derek moves closer to his throat. The werewolf buries his face into the crook of Stiles's collarbone, inhales and then moves to Stiles's face. Stiles meeps and squeezes his eyes shut. _Please don't kill me, please don't kill me, please don't kill me. I have so much more to live for. Like Lydia, I still need to get her to notice me, to agree to let me hold her notebooks or something. And dad, I can't leave him like this. Not after what I did… and Scott. Well, he's already a mess, but at least I know where everything is in that mess, like entropy; organized chaos. Without me, he'll just be chaos. And, and…_ Derek's hand, paw, clawed paw is on his chest. His claws hook on the hem of his neck collar. _Oh God._

Derek's arm jerks, and Stiles flinches in pain. Fabric is torn and something warm and wet leaks down Stiles's chest and over his shoulder. _Oh my God, I'm going to die. I'm going to bleed to death. Or get eaten._Stiles's eyes remain determinedly shut; he doesn't want the ugly Alpha face to be the last thing that he sees. He pictures Lydia's glossy smile, Scott ogling at Allison, his dad laughing at a sitcom, but then his mind goes blank when he feels teeth against his neck.

**Good, bad, terrible? Please do review, it would an honor. I actually have a small amount of pride with this story; Stiles and Derek came fairly easy for me to write, Stiles more so, of course. Derek was a challenge sometimes because he is a little hard to pinpoint. Even after I rewatched some episodes to do a character study of their speech and reactions. I want to stay true to the characters as much as possible.**

**Oh, and Florence and the Machine's "Howl" was a great inspiration, this can be demonstrated by the title and chapter names. **


	2. The Beast You've Made Of Me

**Well, sometimes things escape from underneath you. Like my expectations for this story's initial response. They went way beyond my ideals, which I couldn't be happier about. So, here's some plot cookies for you to eat up. This'll finally give you some answers or maybe just some more questions ;)**

**Disclaimer: If owned, the possibility for Sterek wouldn't be 50/50, it'd be 100%**

The Beast You've Made Of Me

Pressure builds until it breaks. The weak skin barrier protecting Stiles's soft tissue yields. Stiles yelps more than gasps when Derek's fangs become intimate with his blood vessels and muscles. His hands come up from the floor and clasp Derek's arms. He isn't trying to push Derek away as much as he needs something to hold on to. Holy Hale, this freaking _hurts_. Derek just holds on for a few eternities until he draws his fangs back out. It was hard to tell through all the bloody pain, but Derek isn't yanking his fangs out, like Stiles predicted he would. Instead, he gently removes them like a sterile knife in surgery. It doesn't mean that Stiles isn't cringing in pain any less. He peeks through his eyelashes to see Derek, still wolf-ed out, (he had hoped Derek had come to his senses) studying Stiles like he is trying to decide where to bite next. It turns out it isn't where to bite next, but _lick._ Stiles had come to accept the smelling but licking. No, that is just – no. This isn't Derek. This is some impostor. Or this is some kinky dream that Stiles is going to wake up in a cold sweat from. Or Scott is going to burst out of a closet shouting, "Got'cha!" and him and Derek will start to giggle like little schoolgirls. But nope, Stiles is abandoned in the reality of Derek running his long, bumpy tongue through the ridges of skin he had made with his claws. It is uncomfortable and feels extremely weird. Stiles's skin rises in gooseflesh, and his fingers tighten on Derek's leather sleeves as Derek drags his tongue from his chest to the bite mark on his neck. It stings and makes Stiles squirm. Derek growls again. Stiles stops moving and gnaws on the inside of his mouth to keep his mind distracted. He drops his head back to the floor with an audible thump and asks himself the age-old question, "Why is this my life?"

It isn't until Derek is practically staring him down does he realize the pain is gone. Well, his throat and collarbone area are numb. And Derek. Derek looks like Derek again. No wolf in sight except for a very confused Derek Hale.

"Stiles?"

"That'd be me."

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh, y'know, it's a long story."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Can you answer my question before I answer yours?"

"_What_?"

"Can you get off of me?"

Derek is flying off of him like he is some scary looking spider. He is up against the sink before Stiles can even sit up. The werewolf looks a little wild with his leather jacket all rumpled, his hair all fluffy from having wolf-ed out, and his eyes are crazier than they were when they were blazing rubies. Plus, he is gripping the sink so hard the porcelain breaks. But that is okay because Stiles suspects there is no running water.

Stiles is sitting up, gripping his neck and shoulder as if they hurt, but they don't. He awkwardly tries to look at it and sees Derek has ripped his favorite Young the Giant t-shirt, and no amount of Tide is going to get out this bloodstain.

"Look what you did, man. You owe me a new shirt. And a new neck." He massages the area, making it tingle. "What the hell was that all about? Were you trying to kill – oh my God, did you turn me? Derek! Holy shit, no, NO! I told you, I told Scott, I told your crazy uncle, I _like_ being human. I'm good at it, well fairly good at it, and isn't it apart of your moral code or guidelines, or whatever, to turn those that _want_ to be turned? You're an Alpha; you can't just go biting people willy-nilly. Oh God, what I'm I – fix this, Derek, fix this right now!"

And the great and noble Derek just stares at him. And then, jumps out the glassless window. And runs off into the night.

"Well shit."

/

It's the next morning. Stiles's alarm and his dad are both insisting he get out of bed. Both maybe very loud but he is unconvinced. He is tired from a little under three hours of sleep, being clawed and bitten even though when he returned home he discovered the wounds had healed up, not that he was really surprised, and he is pretty sure he is no longer a human. After all that he has had to do for Scott and Derek and countless others, he had hoped he could return to a normal life with no more than a scratch. He thought his resolve to remain human had been made clear. Crystal clear. He has never been more determined about anything. But lo-behold, it is just one more thing to check on his list of failures.

Stiles doesn't like to operate on gloomy mode. It's just depressing and nobody like a Sourwolf, but that is just what he is, isn't he? A _wolf._ A freaking wolf because Derek can't keep his fangs in his mouth for one night. But Stiles's alarm and his dad don't seem to care about his personal issues. Instead, he is unrolled from his cocoon of blankets, dumped on the floor and told he has ten minutes or else no chocolate chip pancakes for him. Stiles gets his business done in eight.

A sense of normalcy is nice: eating breakfast with his dad, albeit now that his father is no longer Sheriff Stilinski, just Papa Stilinski, and Stiles is now a werewolf. But his dad is taking his son's I-got-my-dad-fired slip-up like a champ. Stiles figures he is use to it, but that doesn't make the guilt weigh any less heavy. His dad just waves him off as Stiles piles into his jeep and motors off to school to face his doom. Scott.

Now, he knows Scott will think rationally about this. Maybe he'll be even excited. They are both werewolves now. Scott could actually be the one teaching Stiles how to show self-control. Well, that is up for discussion. But with Jackson a bit busy with his kanima problem, they both could be the co-captains of the lacrosse team. Hey, then Lydia might even notice him, talk to him! Perhaps this won't be as bad as he had thought. Scott's life seem to get better after he turned, so why can't Stiles's? Sure, there are hunters, like Allison's crazy grandfather, but they are pretty much veterans when it comes to dealing with that kind of stuff. Plus, didn't Derek say that the larger the pack the stronger they were? One more wolf could mean the balance between hunter and werewolf power has tipped to favor the latter. Peter knew he was lying when he told him "no." But now that it has happened, what more can Stiles do about it? When life gives you lemons make lemonade. Well, in this case, when life gives you lemonade, drink it.

His gloomy mode that woke up with him this morning starts to pack its bags, already knowing it was never welcome, when Scott comes ambling down the hallway.

"Scott!" Stiles waves him down.

"Hey!" Scott drops into step with Stiles as they head to Stiles's locker.

"So, you won't believe what happened last night." Stiles prompts, shrugging his backpack off.

"I know, I can't believe it either." Scott smiles at him.

"What-?" Stiles stops, he sees a couple totally violating, in more ways than one, school PDA codes and his locker. He can wait. Besides, what?

"Allison totally took me back! Isn't that awesome? I went over to her house last night. And, well, I didn't use the front door because I knew that wouldn't be a good idea, so I went up to the roof and knocked on her window. We talked on her roof for a while, and she said that she wanted us to be together again. She said something about losing her mom had made her realize that she doesn't want to lose anyone else that she cares about. And some other stuff happened but you probably don't want to know about that. But isn't this great!" Scott gets that funny look in his eye and scrubs the back of his neck. Oh-kay, not what Stiles was expecting, an image of Scott and Allison getting it on, so early in the morning. It isn't even first period yet. He quickly shakes the vision out of his thoughts as quickly as it comes, as in appeared not the other comes… Oh God.

"That is great, man! Way to go!" Stiles slaps Scott hard on the back, hoping to see if his newly gifted strength knocks Scott out of his wet daydreams because seriously, Stiles has bigger problems, and they are in public for goodness's sake! But Scott doesn't even flinch. Instead, he starts walking toward English. And then the bell rings. And the couple is still molesting his locker. Stiles scowls and throws his hands up.

/

Finally, Stiles is able to corner Scott in Chemistry because Mr. Harris expects nothing less but for those two to whisper to each other for the entirety of his class anyway. And Allison is sitting in the front row with Lydia. Stiles and Scott are in the back.

"Dude, I need to talk to you."

"You are talking to me, Stiles." Scott taps his pencil against his notebook and stares at Allison's back.

"Do I look different to you?"

"No. Same as usual."

"You didn't even look at me."

Scott stops tapping his pencil and turns fully in his seat to prove his point. "No, Stiles. You look just like you do every other day."

"Would you like to say something to the class, Mr. McCall?" Mr. Harris is now looming over them. They didn't even notice him appear. "I think you were saying something about how much you like what Mr. Stilinski is wearing today." The class snickers. Allison has a very amused raised eyebrow.

"No sir, just that it's a new shirt." Scott uses that innocent voice he defaults to when he is being suspected for trouble.

"Got it from Macy's. Do you shop there, Mr. Harris?" Stiles asks in all seriousness.

"Where I shop is none of your concern, Mr. Stilinski. The only concern the _both_ of you should be having is seeing me after school. In detention." Mr. Harris is back to slinking up the aisle and droning from the textbook.

"Okay, then do I smell different?" Stiles continues, unfazed but using a softer voice.

For good measure, Scott takes in a deep breath then locks eyes with Stiles. "What is going on? I know you ask weird questions, but this, okay, isn't weirder than your other questions, but why are you asking me _how you smell_? You usually tell me not to smell you because it is violating your privacy. Did something happen?" Scott has that I-am-really-worried-about-you look in his eyes, and Stiles can finally breakdown and tell him.

/

"DEREK!" Scott shouts. No, he roars. Stiles can hear him from all the way to the road he is speeding down. Scott took off like a flash of lightning once school let out, after he quickly explained to Allison that he is going to kill Derek and pecked her on the cheek. Stiles noticed a little smile crease her face, but he didn't linger long as he went boiling down the stairs and to his jeep to follow Scott.

Stiles yanks the steering wheel to the left, and the jeep's tires begin to crunch leaves, dirt, and twinges. Okay, so maybe Scott isn't thinking rationally about this, but it does touch Stiles a bit that his friend is so raging mad for his sake. But, he doesn't want Scott to murder someone for his sake; he is all right with maiming and torturing him or her, but he would at least like to be there to supervise. Especially when it is Derek Hale.

When he drives into the clearing in front the Hale House he sees Derek framed by Erica, Boyd, and Isaac, all awkwardly snarling at a wolf-ed out Scott. Stiles barely shuts off the engine before he is leaping out the jeep door and fumbling to Scott's side.

"Scott, Scott, enough with the fang showing and the claw baring. I am happy that you are eager to defend my honor but can't we at least act like civilized wolves here and talk about this?" Stiles can't believe he is saying this. He should be ordering Scott to take them out one at a time, starting with that bitch Erica. He still hasn't forgiven her for dumping him in the garbage like a piece of trash.

"Civilized wolves, what are you talking about?" Isaac frowns, "last I checked, _we're_ the wolves, and you're the puny human."

Scott growls. Stiles scratches the back of his head, "funny you should say that." He glances at the man in black, "right Derek?"

The pack snaps their heads to stare at their leader, suddenly going from defensive to, "what the hell?"

"What is he talking about, Derek?" Boyd is the first to ask.

"Yeah, did you turn _him?_" Erica sneers.

"Wow, glad to know you're so accepting." Stiles glares, and Scott starts to shift back, but not completely.

"Yes, he did! Derek what were you thinking, how could you do this?! He's my friend! You know he doesn't want to be a werewolf! But you forced him, didn't you! You're becoming so power hungry you can't even stop yourself. You talk big about control but you can't even control yourself!"

Derek growls at this but remains passive. "I didn't turn him."

Everyone deadpans, Scott so much so that he returns human. "What? But he," he gestures at a very still Stiles, " said that you _bit _him."

"Has he noticed any changes, being able to smell things more strongly, hear things from far away, see things more clearly?" Derek asks lowly.

Scott impatiently waits for Stiles to shake his head like he just realized those would have been good symptoms to properly diagnosis his transformation into a supernatural beast.

"Wait, does that mean you're immune too, like Lydia?" Scott is staring wide-eyed at Stiles as are the furry trio, but Derek just continues to avert his eyes.

"No, he's not immune, I just didn't turn him. He is still human."

"What is that suppose to mean, you can bite someone without turning them? I thought that wasn't possible!" Erica accuses, sounding mildly offended.

"I'm the Alpha, I have the ability to control who turns if I bite them." Derek snaps but doesn't come off very convincing.

"So, what did you do, then? If you didn't turn him." Isaac probes, almost looking like he already knows the answer but just wants Derek to say it.

"I marked him." Derek does say it more or less.

"And what's that suppose to mean?" Scott is back to snarling and growling, keeping an unnaturally quiet Stiles behind him.

"It means what it means, I marked him. As…" He mumbles the rest, folding his arms across his chest and dropping his face. Like he is trying to clam up with all of his secrets still unrevealed.

"As, as what, Derek!" Scott strides over until he fisting Derek's leather jacket, and their noses are virtually touching. "What. Did. You. Do?"

"I marked him as mine." Derek finally flickers his eyes to Stiles, still frozen like a little bunny rabbit. The action reminds Stiles of the night before, and he shudders back to reality.

"Wh-at." His voice cracks like some thirteen-year-old boy, he clears it. "By 'as yours' how would you define that? Like some snack for later you put your name on so no one else will eat it, or…? And please, don't let it be 'or."

"Or." Derek grumbles.

Stiles groans, grabs at his head because his hair isn't long enough, and slides down into the fetal position.

**Trying out the other characters was interesting, I hope that they are agreeable. Especially Scott, but he won't play a bigger role until later in the story.**


	3. The Moon That Breaks The Night

**A bonus chapter because this one is short. And because you are all fantastic.**

The Moon That Breaks The Night

Stiles is staring at Scott who is staring at Stiles. They are locked in an epic battle of who will blink first. The battleground is inside the confines of Stiles's bedroom. They have returned shortly after Stiles started chanting, "there's no place like home, there's no place like home." And the furry trio became a heap of laughing hyenas once Isaac took over narrating the turning (no pun intended) of events. Derek put all three into a killer headlock at the same time. They were still struggling around Derek bulging muscles when Scott all but scooped Stiles up and dumped him into the passenger seat of his jeep and took command of the wheel. It was a very quiet ride back to Stiles's place.

Stiles and Scott declare their battle a draw after blinking at the same time. Stiles drops his butt onto his bed and his head into his hands. Scott gets up from the desk chair to pace.

"So, you're his mate?" Scott says again for, by Stiles's calculations, the eighth time.

"Apparently." He mumbles into his palms.

"For, like, ever?"

"I don't know, probably. I forgot to capitalize on it when I was researching werewolves." Stiles snipes. "Should we Google it? 'Werewolf Mating – the vultures and the wasps addition.'"

"But you're a guy, how does that even work?" Scott confesses his main concern.

"Thanks for noticing, and you would be surprised how many homosexual relationships there are in the animal kingdom. Penguins, dolphins, turtles. It's real. However, it's not something they like to talk about on Animal Planet. Not that Animal Planet really exists anymore." Stiles flops back eagle spread on his mattress. He is almost 99.8% sure he is still in shock.

"And you're a human. Don't you both have to be the same species?"

"Apparently not, judging by Derek's reaction and the fact that ligers exist."

"Aren't tigers and lions cats? Either way, can it be broken, the bond or whatever it is?" Scott desperately says.

"I don't know, Scott! I just learned that I'm bonded or married or – oh my God, I'm married to Derek! Scott!" Stiles grabs at his pillow and smashes it into his face. "I don't want to be married to Derek. I want a divorce!"

"Well, can you get one or is that illegal?" Scott prods again.

"Get me some Adderall, a Monster, and my laptop and let's find out."

/

A few hours later, Scott is gone because he needed to pick his mom up from work, and Stiles is still scouring the Internet for a cure to his latest disease. Derek.

So far he now knows wolves are monogamous: they mate for life, females can give birth to one litter every year, there are male wolves called Casanovas that have a harem of females from several different packs, and many other things. As for werewolves there is just speculation. Oh, and this thing called 'knotting,' yeah, that'll give Stiles nightmares for a while. A similarity, he notes, is the mating bond can only be broken upon death of one of the pair. Again, not something that Stiles can use to his advantage, but then again maybe if he can lure Derek into a trap of wolfsbane…?

He is so absorbed in sifting through link after link of bullshit; he doesn't notice there is a presence in his room until it coughs. Stiles jumps in his desk chair and slams shut his laptop, a natural reflex to hide things he would rather his dad not see.

"Derek!" Stiles squeaks once he whips around in his chair.

Derek is looming in front of an open window, looking extremely uncomfortable.

"Uh, why don't you sit down," Stiles motions to his bed. "I think we need to talk."

Derek doesn't move but does nod his head. "Yes, I think we do."

"So-?"

"Why were you at my house last night?" Derek interrupts.

"Because, if you would check your messages you would see that I was calling an emergency meeting about something that I totally forgot to tell Scott about, shit." Stiles spins around in his chair to fish for his phone off his desk. He starts to pull it out from underneath some papers detailing just exactly how wolves mate when Derek's hand is covering his. Claws included.

Stiles lurches like he is burned, causing his chair and him to roll away from the desk.

"This is more important." Derek stares, fisting Stiles's phone like it offends him and then tosses it back onto the desk in punishment.

"Ah, I would beg to differ unless you would like to explain why you were _smelling _me and _licking _me last night."

"I was what?"

"Yeah, you were wolf-ed out and sniffing me like some tasty piece of meat, which I know I would probably be delicious, and then you ripped my shirt and bit me! You then proceeded to molest me with your tongue by sticking it in the gashes you made on my flawless, delicate skin." Stiles jerks his neck collar to show Derek the space he had claimed his scratching and biting post. "But as you can see, it has healed because of your magical healing saliva."

"Smelling… where is the shirt that I ripped?" Derek starts to sniff around the room.

"That's all you got? How about an apology or something? At least for that shirt, it was one of favorites." Stiles scoffs.

Derek offers a convincing glare.

Stiles points to a smelly pile of clothing by his dresser. "It's in there, I didn't have the heart to throw it away yet…"

Derek toes through the pile, not wanting to touch Stiles's dirty laundry with his bare hands until he unearths a torn and bloodstained shirt. He scrapes it up and holds it under his nose. With one whiff, Derek makes a strange gagging sound and then sneezes. When his eyes open they are blown scarlet, and his fangs are poking out of his lips.

"Whoa, dude, my clothes do _not_ smell that bad." Stiles defends.

"It's not your clothing, it's what's on it." Derek scrubs his nose on his sleeve. "It's Sundew pollen."

"Sundew pollen, what's that? Some kind of funky plant?"

"It's a plant with clumps of little yellow flowers on it. Humans would disregard it as a weed, but to werewolves it's an aphrodisiac." Derek studies the shirt for a moment longer until he chucks it at Stiles's head. "You must have fell into some."

"I did trip." Stiles manages to catch it before he gets a face full of bloodstain. "But is it really that powerful to make you… y'know." Stiles makes a thrusting motion.

"Never do that again." Derek backs up until pinched between the dresser and the bookcase. "Normally no, it's more potent when it's crushed and made into a drink, but it's mating season for Alphas."

"Of course, werewolves have a mating season because it's not like you all aren't animal enough as it is. Wait, mating season for _Alphas_? Does that mean there are several?" Stiles looks horrified.

"Yes, the Alphas' happens the earliest because we are the only ones allowed to mate; Betas and Omegas have a time after that, but they are not as compelled. But for when some cocky Betas or Omegas decide to roam around there should be no available females left." Derek explains plainly. Stiles tries not to hang on the words "cocky" and "available."

"So, what you are saying is that you jumped me because I smelled _alluring_ to you." Stiles smirks a bit and drops the shirt to the floor at his feet.

"Would you really like me to answer that?" Derek glowers from across the room.

Stiles shrugs nonchalantly, "I know I am pretty irresistible."

Derek scoffs and looks at the bookcase. Obviously done with Stiles. But Stiles isn't done with Derek. He stands up and takes a few feet toward the werewolf. "And, you said that you 'marked' me."

Derek sighs, "yes, it means that I claimed you as my mate and that no one else can have you."

"Then," Stiles looks down at his socks and wiggles his toes within them, "why didn't you, y'know, try to mate with me?" His ears burn a little bit because Stiles, does indeed, get embarrassed.

"I came to my senses after I marked you." Derek quietly replies.

"Is that why you jumped out the window?"

Derek doesn't answer, but Stiles doesn't need him to. This all was very awkward; he could allow Derek a few freebies. But this was not going to be one of them: "so, is this going to be a long-term thing?"

It turns out, the look on Derek's face is all the answer Stiles's needs.

**This was a very "into the Jungle" chapter, a lot of animal references. But all for good reason. The facts about homosexual animals, true. The facts about wolves, true according to wiki, because it's _reliable, _(but mostly convenient). However, the facts about Sundew and mating seasons are totally my own. =) The parallel between a _sun_dew plant and werewolves being a creature of the _moon_ will be exploited later, but in a different way.**

**Oh, Stiles's t-shirt is only Young the Giant because I was listening to "Cough Syrup" by them when writing that bit.**


	4. I Howl When We're Apart

**Well, if Derek and Stiles seem a little chummy too soon, I'm sorry. (Consider it the honeymoon stage ;)) I get somewhat paranoid because I like slow moving relationships and that is what I intend for these two, but hopefully Allison helps explain it, and I tried to show some time expanded between the bite and now. And, well, this was actually suppose to happen later, but then the episode plot changed and Allison got all weird, and she and Stiles won't have had that conversation, which you are about to read, so I had to do some rearranging. (My main excuse). I hope the steaming plate of Sterek in this chapter is enough to quail any concerns. **

* * *

I Howl When We're Apart

Scott and Stiles have to suffer through two hour-long detentions for the rest of the week for skipping the first one. The detentions involve scrubbing every inch of the chemistry room and organizing every chemical jar and piece of equipment under the close supervision of Mr. Harris. It isn't until the weekend that Stiles finally gets around to having his emergency meeting where the time to gloat has long passed. Nonetheless, his theory has sparked something else for the pack to talk about instead of whispering about the recent coupling of Derek and Stiles. One that sends said couple to opposite ends of the room.

Stiles generally doesn't like being the one walking around with an Awkward Turtle on a leash, but it is persistent when ever Derek enters the vicinity. It was hard enough to look at Derek because of his overall scariness, but now, Stiles feels like a middle school girl all shy around her crush after her friend put her secret love letter to him in his locker. But Stiles certainly _does not have a crush on Derek Freaking Hale_, so this is all very ridiculous. It doesn't help that Derek doesn't help at all with the situation. He gets all tense, more than usual, and his eyebrows bunch together like he is focusing on combusting air particles around Stiles's head. Stiles has even tried to tone down his talking because he can see Derek clenching his fists when ever he spouts out his brilliance for all the world to hear. Again, more than usual. The furry trio only feeds lettuce to the Awkward Turtle by calling Stiles "mom" and offering to rent a hotel room for the two of them to spend a night alone together. At first Derek snarled threats at them but now after a week of this, he has given up and just goes on ignoring Stiles the best he can.

"You shouldn't drink that, it'll keep you up all night." A voice in Stiles's head says when he takes a sip of ice coffee, which really is cold coffee from this morning. He sputters into his cup when he realizes that voice isn't inside his head.

"Derek!" Stiles announces, slamming his cup on his end table.

"Yes, that's my name, you don't have to say it every time I come into a room." Derek is crawling through Stiles's window.

"I only do when you creep into my room through my window in the middle of the night. A little warning, that's all I ask." Stiles smooths out the wrinkles in his bedspread. "So, what do I owe the honor of being graced by your presence?"

"Just the gift of me." Derek rounds the bed and sits down on the comfy chair Stiles keeps near it. It is a little unexpected, since Derek has made it a point to keep a good ten feet between them.

"Wow, I think I'm rubbing off on you. You actually made a joke." Stiles muses.

"Don't think that you're the only funny guy here. I'm not completely humorless." Derek's eyebrow quips in lieu of his mouth, and then he settles into the chair and doesn't look like he is going to say anything more until Stiles asks, "so, do you need something?"

"No."

"Just thought you'd pop in for a visit."

Derek grunts.

"Well, okay. But I have homework I need to do."

Derek nods.

"That means we can't talk."

Derek nods again and closes his eyes.

"Even though we've been avoiding each other for the past seven days, which probably warrants some kind of discussion."

Derek remains silence.

"Okay, I'm going to do my homework now," even though it is Friday night, "let me know if you need anything, like a glass of water or a snack, I think there are some short ribs in the fridge from last night, or maybe a blanket, pillow-"

"Stiles." Derek cracks an eye open.

"Yes?"

"Shut the hell up."

Stiles does. He stretches over to his desk to paw at his laptop. It doesn't yield, and he has to physically get up and grab it. He returns to his bed and works on his English paper for fifteen minutes, then plugs his earphones into his head and double clicks on World of Warcraft. It keeps him busy for about an hour until he hears the noisy slam of his dad closing the bathroom door. He unplugs one ear and turns around to see that Derek is gone.

* * *

"Allison, you know about dating werewolves." Stiles opens with, sitting down next to her in the library on a cheerful Thursday morning.

"Ah, I suppose so." She uneasily smiles at him and tucks a strand of wavy hair behind her ear.

"So, you would know what it means when they come unannounced into your room after dusk." Stiles pushes on.

"Um, I guess," she looks down at the textbook she is working out of, "but Stiles, I think that's kinda obvious, don't you?"

"Not really. You would think so, right? But no, he just sits there, doesn't say anything, he just reads or sometimes sleeps. I don't get it. I've asked but he doesn't give me a straight answer, just this vague smile and a cheeky remark." Stiles takes the pencil out of Allison's hand and clasps her now free hands in his. "You gotta help me, Allison, we're both humans, we've gotta stick together."

"Stiles, are we talking about the same thing?" Allison furrows her eyebrows in confusion.

"I dunno, I'm talking about Derek. Are you talking about you and Scott getting it on? Because I would appreciate it if we left that to Scott, he tells me enough as it is."

Allison blushes and pulls her hands out of Stiles's. "Oh, no, sorry, I know what you mean. Scott told me about what happened. I'm sorry?"

"Thank you! You're the first person to say that to me! And I need your advice. Not so much about dating, because we're _not_ but just about having a relationship with a werewolf."

"Oh, well, I'm not sure what you want to know." Allison glances at the door as if she is plotting her escape. "Is there anything specific?"

"Yeah, like how do you know what he's thinking by reading his moods? Girls are good at that kind of stuff, like palm readers, but with guys' moods."

"Usually Scott just tells me what's on his mind when I ask him. Sometimes he won't because it has something to do with werewolves or Jackson, and he doesn't want me to worry, or get in the way." She says this last thing with a bit of spite in her voice. "It's been a little harder to talk to him with my mom…"

Stiles frowns and allows a little moment of silence to honor the death of a mother, but he continues on because he doesn't want to have that discussion now. Those thoughts will be for the week following next week. This week will be for discovering why Derek has been making nightly visits to his bedroom for the past six days.

"How do you get him to talk to you when he isn't in the chatty mood but you want to know what's on his mind?"

"Sometimes I try to guess what is it is. People like to contradict you when you're wrong or if you do land on the right thing, it makes it easier for them to start talking about it. It can be hard to bring something up when it's personal." Allison says thoughtfully, "and if that doesn't work, I have other methods."

Stiles gapes a little bit then says, "I'll pretend I didn't' hear you say that. So, hypothetically, what would be a good guess as to why someone would come over, hang out but basically not say anything, for several hours, and then leaves?"

"Well," Allison props her elbow up on the table and drops her jaw into her palm, "Scott said you are bonded, right? So, maybe he just wants to be around you."

* * *

Scott and Stiles go see Dark Knight Rises that Friday night. Needless to say, it was freaking awesome, fucking fantastic; one of greatest masterpieces in the history of freaking awesome, fucking fantastic film masterpieces. Stiles is jittery from damn-good-movie adrenaline when he walks into his bedroom to find Derek relaxing on his bed, leafing through his chemistry textbook.

"I didn't know you liked chemistry." Stiles comments, shutting the door and kicking off his shoes.

"Unlike you, I was good in it." Derek allows the book to slip to the floor.

"Hur hur." Stiles paces over to his shelf and begins to hunt. "Hey, is my laptop on the end table?"

"Why don't you turn around and look." Derek replies.

"Can you please just answer my question, Mr. Sassy Wolf? It'll benefit us both." Stiles "ah-ha's!" when he finds what he is searching for and pulls it off the shelf.

"Yes. It is. And don't never call me that again." Derek glares a hole at Stiles's back, which he can feel burning through his Batman t-shirt.

Stiles just smirks and pads over to the bed. "Scoot."

Derek starts to get up.

"I said 'scoot' not 'get off.'" Stiles flops into the small space provided, pressing himself right up against Derek. Derek is not thrilled about this and carries on with his motion of getting off the bed. But Stiles hooks a leg over his. "No. Sit. Stay."

"I'm not a dog, Stiles."

"Woof, now hand me my laptop." Derek just stares at him and then pointedly looks at the leg bridged over his. "Pretty please, Lord Derek." Stiles pouts and clasps his hands together in a manly manner.

Derek rolls his eyes and retrieves the machine off the end table and shamelessly deposits it into Stiles's lap. The boy twinges from certain parts receiving the impact, and Derek settles back against the pillow.

"Thanks." Stiles grumbles as politely as possible and removes his leg seeing its job has been completed. He picks up a fallen pillow from the floor and gets it comfortable on his lap before he sets his computer on top of it. It isn't until then does he reveal what he has chosen from his shelf of wonders.

"Batman Begins and the Dark Knight." Stiles grins. "In honor of the final installment of the trilogy. Please, _please_, tell me you've seen them."

"I haven't seen Batman Begins –" Stiles gasps audibly, "Completely! The disc was scratched."

"A sin! How dare anyone mar such a dignified piece of visionary magnificence!" Stiles declares.

Derek actually smiles. It's a little smile. Barely there. But it's there.

Stiles's heart does a funny little tap dance. Holy shit, did he just make Derek Stone-Faced-Never-Smiles Hale, smile?! He doesn't but does shove the DVD into the CD drive and starts to jitter all over again.

"Before we start, does your computer have enough battery life for two movies?" Derek questions.

Stiles goes flying about the room in search of his power cord, _shoves_ it into the wall and computer outlet, and then hops back onto his spot on the bed.

Stiles doesn't need to guess, his answer is loud and clear. He is shoulder-to-shoulder, elbow-to-elbow, hip-to-hip, and leg-to-leg with Derek who looks more than content watching the Dark Knight Trilogy (minus the last one) with Stiles all night long.

* * *

**And just for the sake of ingenuity and because it is the epitome of greatness, we'll pretend TDKR came out during the school year, not the summer ;)**

**Sorry this was short, I promise you later today I am going to post another chapter. A nice long one, but because now I'm all worried, and I need Derek to do some more explaining about the bond.**

**Oh, and I'm new to so I finally discovered the line breaker line thing, I'll be using that now instead of a "/" to break sequences.  
**


	5. The Ropes Have Been Unbound

**A little late with posting this, but I got it. I had to add a little section after Nifters reviewed saying how quickly Derek revealed the marking, which was a good point, and so I felt the need to address it. Hopefully, it's not too poor of an excuse for an explanation. It ended up being more of a fun bickerment than being helpful. Derek and Stiles are too much fun when they go at each other. **

**This, as you will soon realize, is episode 10 "Fury," but with a few twists. At first this was a beast to write because I felt like I was just summarizing the episode, that is until Derek makes his appearance. I tried slipping in some "behind the scenes" so it doesn't feel like a summery. I'm terrible sorry if it does. **

* * *

The Ropes Have Been Unbound

The obvious thing to do when you have discovered the identity of a killer would be to notify the police. Which, of course, after trying to deal with problem on their own, and more or less failing at it, Scott and Stiles finally take the issue to Stiles's dad while Erica, Isaac, and Boyd are on 24/7-neighborhood watch under the direct command of Derek who has decided he is going to do things his own way, which isn't surprising. He thinks he can lure out the kanima by using some kind of trap. He has, in not so many words, left Stiles and Scott to deal with Matt because, "I am not wasting my time with some angsty teenager."

Thus, Scott and Stiles convince Mr. Stilinski to swoon the front desk at the police station to let them into the evidence room at two in the morning. It was all for a very good reason, Mr. Stilinski insured the front desk, and the boys couldn't agree more. Even though they still didn't have a definitive motive… yet.

They explore the hospital video footage the night that Jessica, the new mother, had been killed. Stiles and Scott, well Stiles, figure it had to have been Matt because Jackson couldn't. They find the creep's back facing the camera's screen several times until one scene shows him being stopped by none other than Scott's mom, Melissa. Phoning her, and sending her an image of Matt's face, she reveals she does remember him and his muddy shoes. Mr. Stilinski, being the man of the law, overrides Scott and Stiles obvious convincement and says that Melissa needs to come down to the station to give an official report. Even though he too is seeing the obvious paper and video trial. Stiles practically volunteers when his dad tells him to inform the front desk of Melissa's imminent arrival.

Stiles flies to the front but does not see the woman they encountered only a half and hour ago. The same woman, Stiles absently recalls, Derek charmed to sidetrack her while Stiles stole into his father's office. Stiles frowns somewhat at the recollection.

"Hello?" He looks around until his eyes fall to the floor. He sees her. Barely sees her under her own blood smeared over her chest. Stiles's heart begins to hammer in his ears, he turns, but before he can move any further a gun is centered at his nose. Matt is behind it, looking smug with a cocky smile.

"Hey there,_ Stiles_." He grins.

"Matt." Stiles grits his teeth. He tries to look past the weapon in his face but it is very distracting.

"You're out late for Saturday night, shouldn't you be at home, tucked under your blankies fast asleep?" He laughs, "because we both know you don't have much of a social life."

"At least what little social life I have I don't spend it killing innocent people." Stiles quips back.

"Wanna run that by me again, Stilinski?" Matt jams the barrel into Stiles's cheek. Stiles denies the offer with a shake of his head.

"That's what I thought. How about we go see Scott and your dad, huh?" Matt shoves Stiles's shoulder to pivot him in the right direction and for encouragement adds pressure to his back with the mouth of the gun.

Matt is beyond the point of no return when he says he has a lot of a people he wants to hurt on his grocery list when Mr. Stilinski tries to reason with him like a sane person. Cellphones abandoned on the evidence room's desk, Matt shepards Scott, Stiles, and Mr. Stilinski to a holding room.

"Sit down." Matt waves Mr. Stilinski to the bench. The man sits, well versed in the art of dealing with people out of their minds.

"Stiles, why don't you cuff your dad for me?" Matt tosses him a pair of handcuffs he probably swiped from the fallen front desk lady. "Now." Stiles scowls but cuffs his father's wrist to the cuff link bolted to the wall.

"Tighter." Matt demands when Stiles locks the ring into place. Stiles rolls his eyes, greatly unimpressed by being ordered around by some punk with a gun.

"Do what he says, Stiles." Mr. Stilinski says reassuringly and Stiles's does. But only because his dad said so, not Matt.

After that is done, Matt moves Scott and Stiles out of the holding room, allowing them a peek at the massacre of police officers in the hallway done by Jackson. He continues them on to the evidence room where every piece of evidence linking him to his crimes is shredded and deleted away by Scott and Stiles. Stiles tries to rationalize with Matt to allow the three of them to go free with the promise that Matt can continue with his killing spree, courtesy of the kanima's blank check but then headlights flood the room. Melissa.

Matt threatens Scott to receive his mom or else Stiles and Melissa will both have a bullet in their heads, in that order. The three of them march to the front door where tense seconds break at the sight of Derek standing on the threshold.

"Oh, thank God." Scott breathes. But within another breath Derek falls flat to the floor. A half kanima-ed Jackson is standing where Derek was, looking terrifying as ever.

Matt leans over Derek to have a good look at him. Derek, being the calm and cool cucumber that his is, condescendingly says, "this is the one controlling him? This _kid?_"

"Well Derek, not everyone is lucky enough to be a big, bad, werewolf. Oh yeah! That's, that's right. I've learned a few things lately." He addresses Scott and Stiles, "werewolves, hunters, kanimas. It's like a frickin' Halloween party every full moon. Except for you Stiles," Matt looks amusingly suspicious, "what do you turn into?"

"The Abominable Snowman, but uh, it's more of a wintertime thing, y'know seasonal." Stiles replies.

Matt cocks his head, and Jackson inflicts Matt's unenthusiastic response to Stiles's special brand of a humor. Stiles's neck stings for a moment then everything just kind of goes down hill from there. Scott flinches to help but Jackson shakes his finger otherwise. Stiles gracelessly drops on top of Derek.

"Bitch!" Stiles defends his pride on the way down. Derek grunts upon impact.

"Get him. Off of me." Derek growls unpleasantly.

"Oh, I don't know, Derek. I think you two make a pretty good pair."

Stiles snorts into Derek's shoulder, oh, if Matt only knew. He can feel Derek's cheek against his scalp as the werewolf moves to glower at his latest addition to his "I hate you" list.

"It must kinda suck though, have all that power taken away from you with just a little _cut_ on the back of the _neck_. I'll bet you're not use to feeling this helpless."

"I've still got some teeth. Why don't you come down here a little closer, huh? We'll see how helpless I am." Derek supplies back.

"Ye-ah bitch." Stiles cracks helpfully.

Then, Melissa arrives. The thin piece of thread holding onto Scott's hope that his mother wouldn't come for some blessed reason severs. It is written all over his face. Matt reiterates his whole, "do what I say and nobody will get hurt" policy, but Stiles isn't feeling quite up to playing that game.

"Scott, don't trust him!" He warns. Matt doesn't seem to appreciate Stiles's advice and grabs him off of Derek. His foot finds a better place on top of Stiles's windpipe.

"This work better for ya?" He derides at Scott.

"Stop, stop!" Scott pleads. Stiles gasps, his face swelling with blood. It's like a panic attack, but so much worst. He can't fucking _breathe._ He can feel his lungs tighten, trying to hold in the precious air. He can also feel something under his back, something hard and fleshy. Little digits needle his spine. Putting pressure there, and it mildly keeps Stiles from thinking about having his neck _crushed_ in until Scott pacifies Matt and the foot is gone. Stiles chokes and gasps.

Matt leaves Stiles and Derek in the capable hands of Jackson while they go welcome Melissa into this hostage state of affairs. Jackson easily grabs, none to gently, Derek and Stiles by the back of their neck collars, drags them into an office, and dumps them onto the floor next to one another. Jackson makes a hissing noise at them and flickers his slit pupils for good measure then disappears.

"You okay?" Derek mumbles.

"Perfect. Just paralyzed from the neck down and was almost suffocated to death. My dad in the other room chained up like some criminal, and Matt has completely lost his marbles, which is totally not okay because Jackson is under his control and can kill us with one single finger!" Stiles maybe a little frustrated.

"Glad to know that you aren't brain-damaged from lack of oxygen. Well, anymore so." Derek snides.

'Ha-ha, very funny, glad to know you still have a sense of humor after being so easily taken down by Jackson even though you are the 'great and awesome' Alpha." Stiles scorns. Then feels terrible. "Sorry, just. It's been a stressful night, okay?"

"Tell me about." Derek scoffs, and they both look at each other. "But not really."

"Got it." Stiles twitches his head in the form of a nod. "So, your trap for the kanima worked, I take it?"

"Yeah, but honestly, I didn't think it would." Derek explains, "that's why I wasn't prepared for it when it came."

"What was the trap anyway?"

Before Derek can answer there is a gunshot.

"Scott!" Stiles weakly exclaims, hearing Melissa scream and his dad call out. "Oh my God, shit."

"He'll be fine, he won't die from a bullet wound. I've recovered from worse." Derek reassures.

"Can't I at least be a little concerned about my friend for a moment? Minus him being a super healing werewolf."

Derek rolls his eyes and lays there.

"What are we going to do?" Stiles quietly asks when the shouting is over.

"Wait and see what happens, I guess."

They rest and listen to the muffled noises around them. Derek can obviously hear what is going on behind the walls and mutters explanations when Stiles gives him a questioning look. Melissa is in the holding cell with Mr. Stilinski, gushing concerns over Scott being shot. Matt humors the fact that neither Mr. Stilinski nor Scott's own mother are aware of the truth brewing under their noses. After a few more angry words from Matt, he and Scott make their way back to the office where Stiles and Derek are patiently waiting.

They enter the room where finally Matt gives some real answers as to why he is waving a gun and Jackson around in everyone's faces. It's not the incriminating evidence that he is after to keep his ass out of jail forever, but the bestiary. The book of monster secrets written in archaic Latin that Gerard keeps on a little thumb drive. Which, of course, is on Gerard's person, not on any of them so why Matt is so kindly asking is beyond them. That is until he reveals his delicate situation. He is becoming a kanima.

* * *

It becomes a known fact that Matt would rather talk to Scott than he would Stiles or Derek so they go off again to have a private chat, leaving the two of them to discuss Matt's condition.

"Hey, you know what's happening to Matt." Stiles states not asks.

Derek does, indeed, know what is happening to Matt. He has broken the rules of the kanima: kill those that kill others. By the assertion of Matt, Jackson has killed people who don't deserve such punishment and Matt, himself, has killed as well. And by the great laws of the universe and the nine realms, that is just not cool. And so okay, Stiles's theory wasn't completely off, but he didn't quite land base it either. He had ridden on the assumption that for some supernatural reason Matt was one of the walking dead, but no, something else must have happened to make Matt have such a vendetta against the '06 swim team to eff-up the universe's natural balance. Either way, no matter what, in the end Matt is going to kill them. So, Derek does what Derek does: he stabs himself with five pointy claws to trigger his healing process to flush out the toxin.

Surprisingly, a half a second after Stiles comments on his disapproval of Derek's methods, he flinches.

"Ouch." Like a Rube Goldberg machine Stiles's right leg twitches, making his arm bent by his head to twitch, which comes down to bump Derek's shoulder, making his arm jerk, and inadvertently causing his claws to sink deeper.

"Ow!" Both utter at the same time.

"What do you mean, 'ow?' You're fine." Derek accuses.

"Yeah, well, that doesn't mean that my leg doesn't freaking hurt." Stiles grinds his teeth. "Why does my leg freaking hurt?"

Derek pauses for a moment, then digs his claws in a bit more and notes how Stiles recoils. "It's the bond."

"The what?" Stiles cringes again, trying with no results to put pressure on his aching leg.

"The bond, y'know, or have you forgot?" Derek glares at him.

"No, I haven't _forgotten_, but what are you saying? I can _feel_ your pain?" Stiles glares back, "wait, don't tell me this means that if you die, I'll die too?" He looks a little panicked.

Derek lets him sweat for a moment before answering. "No."

"Oh, thank God." Stiles laughs, "hah, because that would _suck_."

"You'll just feel like you are dying and wish that you were."

"Oh, come on!" Stiles groans, "but wait, you being a werewolf means that you can tolerate more physical damage than a pale, fragile human boy like me. Does that mean that I could die from shock or something because of you being exceptionally injured? Y'know, like from a wolfsbane bullet for example?"

"I don't know, Stiles. The bond is probably weaker for you because you're human, so I don't know how the connection is going to transfer pain and other things." Derek exhales exasperatedly.

"Then how come I feel like you're driving your claws into _my_ leg, not your own? And what _other things_?"

"I. Don't. Know. Why don't you get that kid to look it up in the bestiary for you?" Derek snarls.

"These are major concerns that I have! Besides, shouldn't you know how these things work? You were raised a werewolf, right?" Stiles manages to move his neck enough so that he can forever stare down the side of Derek's face.

Derek flashes his eyes over to look at Stiles, "_yes_, but I was taught how _werewolf-to-werewolf_ bonds work, not werewolf-to-human bonds. There were members of my family that had that kind of bond, but they didn't talk about how the connection was for them. Just that it seemed to vary from pair to pair. Maybe they didn't understand how it worked either."

"Spectacular." Stiles sighs and closes his eyes to collect himself. "Which reminds me..."

Derek makes a growl of irritation that does nothing to impede Stiles. "What now?"

"Why did you admit it so easily? The bond, to the others? I would have thought you've kept it a secret. Y'know, cause you are a big-on-secrets kind of guy."

Derek pauses for a while then answers, "because I had to."

"Because you _had_ to. What, was someone pointing a gun at you head?" Stiles ridicules, "'admit, Derek, you did this to him! Forced him into marriage against his will! Confess your sin!' Was it somewhere along those lines?"

"No," Derek full on snarls. "I wish I would've had a gun to my head, I would've taken the bullet."

"Aww, after all those special times we've had together already? Did those nights we spent together mean nothing to you? Even, even our Batman marathon?" Stiles gasps dramatically, "how could you!"

"Like I said, I had to." Derek is all sorts of aggravated.

"Oh, come on, you've got to do better than that." Stiles snaps back.

"What do you want me to say? It's easier for you."

"Ha! Yeah, _right_." Stiles sneers.

"You think so?" Derek sneers equally.

"Oh, I _know_ so."

"Well, then you'd better get your head checked, because you're _wrong_." Derek looks away.

Stiles has the advantaged with his head tilted and daggers Derek with his eyes. "What is the big deal, why can't you just-?"

"Because I have to. It's how it works. There's no 'or's' or 'if's' or 'instead of's,' werewolves have rules, instinctual guidelines that we are compelled to follow."

"'Compelled to follow,' oh, and here I thought I was the dramatic one." Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Do you want me to explain? Because I don't have to." Derek turns and narrows his eyes at him, "which is it, shut the hell up or have your throat ripped out?"

"Hmm, I'm thinking both are going to end the same, but fine, explain, oh, wise one."

After a few fine moments of defiance, Derek finally clarifies, "when a werewolf marks someone they must declare it to their pack, it's a show of respect and confirmation. Besides, the pack would figure it out anyway, so I'd rather skip the accusations."

"Oh, well, that wasn't anything to get worked up about." Stiles chips.

"Exactly, yet you thought it was still necessary." Derek glowers at him.

"Yours and my definition of 'necessary' is very different."

Derek huffs and looks away.

A few moments of silence passes between them and the throb in Stiles's leg starts to ebb. It carves off his irritation, which had fueled his "getting worked up", and he begins to feel terrible about his behavior again. "Sorry I've been such a hormonal bitch to you tonight. You've been trying to help, and I've been not helping."

"Yeah, well, we all have those times." Derek essentially forgives him.

Stiles chuckles and shifts his head back to its original position, "hopefully this is just a once-a-month thing."

"Hopefully." They glance at each other.

"So, is that hypothetical situation we talked about getting any less hypothetical?" Stiles switches gears.

"I think so." Derek jabs harder at the wounds in his leg. Stiles mildly convulses, but he honestly believes it's a phantom reaction to his previous experience. "I can move my toes."

Stiles grunts unhappily, "dude, _I_ can move _my_ toes."

Derek sagely sighs out his aggravation and then everything goes dark.

"What's going on? What happened? Derek?" Stiles panics again before the room becomes deafening. Gunfire rings out, shattering the windows, ripping up the sheetrock, knocking over furniture and knick-knacks. "Oh my God, we are definitely going to die!" Stiles bemoans, squeezing his eyes shut.

There is a shooting pain in Stiles's leg again, and he knows it is Derek hitting the speed-up button on his healing process treatment. The gunfire stops as quickly as it started, but the pain keeps magnifying. Stiles bites his lip and doesn't complain because shit just got serious. Well, more serious.

"Don't worry." He hears Derek say and out of the corner of his eye sees Derek's shadow rocking as if he is trying to get up. Over his chest he notices a mist coming through the door, then a figure. His heart, already drumming, quickens for a second, fearing Jackson, but sees it is just Scott. His friend drops to his side, then looks over at a struggling Derek.

"Take him." Derek commands, "go!"

"Der-ek." Stiles grunts when Scott hauls him up and out of the room. They limp through the fog being pursued by Jackson, which turns into a game of, "how doors can you slam in Jackson's face only to have him kick them down?" Finally they dead-end in a room that looks like an interrogation room where Scott leaves Stiles paralyzed in a chair and tells him not to move. Oh, don't worry, Stiles doesn't plan on going anywhere anytime soon. That is of course until he notices there is another door where he can hear Melissa and his dad. Perhaps, Derek's method bled over to Stiles a bit because he gets himself moving enough to fall out of the chair and onto his stomach. He grunts in pain but doesn't allow himself to wait for it to subside. He needs to get to his dad.

With one hand in front of the other, Stiles alligator-crawls along the floor. "Come on, you can do this," he encourages himself, echoing Melissa. He makes it to the door and pushes it open just in time to see his dad yank the hook off the wall. Him and Melissa cheer in accomplishment. Stiles does not, however; he can't get his vocal box to work, and Melissa is too late to warn Mr. Stilinski as Matt comes up behind him and whacks him over the head. The former sheriff drops.

Stiles inches out of the doorframe, reaching out for his dad's unconscious body. Melissa implores with Matt but is interrupted when Derek emerges from the darkness of a doorway, growling and snapping his teeth at Matt; his eyes angry fires. The kanima appears suddenly too, and Derek and it launch into a brawl. Stiles watches, worming backward into the doorframe when Derek is thrown against the wall. The kanima goes after Melissa, melding against the bars in pursuit when Scott apparates, stabbing the kanima in the back. He rips it off the bars and tosses it on the floor like a ragdoll. The kanima hisses and flees with Derek hot on its tail, literally.

Stiles mourns the scene of Melissa discovering the truth that the son she loves is a terrible creature not just some goofy, awkward teenager. She rejects him, muttering "no," as she backs away, and Scott can't do anything but turn away in shame and disappear.

A frown appears on Stiles's face, feeling the pain of his best friend. But his worry for his father takes over, and he continues his quest to get to his father's side.

What feels like hours, Stiles finally makes it over to his still motionless dad. He can hear Melissa crying in the back of the cell, but he has no words to offer her solace.

"Dad, Dad! Wake up." Stiles pats his dad's back and shakes his shoulder, "come on dad, no sleeping on the job!" He rolls his dad supine. Feeling a little more in control of his self, Stiles struggles to sit up. He leans awkwardly on his left arm but is at a better angle to rouse his father.

"Dad, come on, please be okay. Please." He begs, piercing his lips in disappointment when there is no response. "Dad, COME ON!" His desperation gives him strength to support himself, and so he grasps both of his dad's shoulders and shakes him silly. "Come on, come on, wake up!" Stiles cries.

"Stiles." A hand is on _his_ shoulder, and he jerks. Wild-eyed, Stiles whips his head around to see Derek crouched down beside him. "He's going to be alright. That kid just hit him pretty hard." Derek says but his face says another thing. He looks distracted and sullen.

Stiles sniffles, not realizing he had gotten that worked up. "You sure?"

All of a sudden Melissa screams. "Get away from him! Monster! _Get away from him!"_ She is pressed against the bars, looking more distressed than any of them.

"Mom, mom, it's okay!" Scott is suddenly there and goes to soothe her, but she is back to shaking her head and sobbing.

"I should go." Derek says to Stiles but is staring intently at Scott.

"Yeah, okay…" Stiles rests his shaking hand on his father's shoulder.

Derek stands to leave but before he goes Stiles tells him, "thanks Derek."

* * *

**By the way, thank you, all of you. The reviews, follows, and favorites keep making my day more awesome. More chapters are to come! Monday just needs to get here soon so I can figure out my ending! I have an idea in mind, but I want it to weave in with the canon. **

**Oh, and because this was such a long chapter, again don't hesitate to inform me of errors, now and in future chapters. I would like to make this as spotless as possible =D**

**Hint for next chapter: some sad Stiles.  
**


	6. The Saints Can't Help Me Now

**This chapter is a little deep, but I was "compelled" to after episode 9 "Party Guessed" with Stiles's illusion of his dad yelling at him. I'm looking forward to the canon diving deeper into those waters. But for now I improvised. I can't remember if they mentioned how long ago she passed away, so I made it six years, since a lot of things seemed to have happened six year prior to the show (Matt, Derek?), thought I'd fit the pattern.**

* * *

The Saints Can't Help Me Now

Stiles doesn't look good in black. He has always said this, but it doesn't matter. His dad wants him in his old suit, and his old suit just happens to be black. Stiles, at least, adds a little colour with a bright yellow dress shirt underneath with a twisty blue and yellow tie. The former sheriff inspects it but, no longer in his profession, is unable to arrest Stiles for a crime against fashion. Stiles tries to revise his dad's frown by saying it is like a ray of sunshine bursting through a shroud of dark clouds. His dad is not amused and pushes Stiles out the door. The boy trips down the steps but doesn't say anything when he gets into his dad's car. He knows why his dad isn't digging his fashion choice. Yellow is his mom's colour.

The ride to the cemetery is like it is every year. Uptight and silent. Stiles bounces his leg and drums a beat on his knees. The radio is off-limits but he needs something to distract his mind. Anything; a lady walking her dog, a tornado touching down, Jackson popping out of the trees as the kanima, Lydia flipping her hair at a homeless person, Derek naked, _something._ This is the worst day of his life, and it happens every year. Every year he is reminded that part of his heart was scooped out and never returned, and now there is a gapping hole of nothingness. He already knows his dad won't come home tonight. He'll be spending the evening at the bar; drinking himself until his blood is more alcohol than hemoglobin. And Stiles will be left sitting on the ratty couch, turning to look at the front door every fifteen minutes or so, hoping that this year won't be like the last: his dad will come back on his own, not in the arms of a fellow cop. But this year it will be different; his dad has lost his job because of him. He'll have one more thing to drink to until he can wash out the memory. And maybe the cops won't be as empathic now that Mr. Stilinski isn't their commanding officer. Stiles doesn't think he has it in him to pick his drunken father up from the station like that. He doesn't want to have that image scarred into his hippocampus. There are just so many "doesn't's" Stiles doesn't know what to do with them all. All he can _do_ is follow his father with a fist full of morning glories to the tombstone of his mother.

"It's been six years, can you believe it?" His father says, dropping down to one knee to brush away dirt from the top of the stone. "It's you."

Stiles's body jerks, like something that he ate for the first time has left a bad taste in his mouth. It tastes like that funny-juice Lydia served at her party.

"It's all you. Y'know, every day I saw her laying in that hospital slowly dyin'." Stiles's heart plunges out of the hole in his gut. _No, no, no._ He nearly drops the flowers, the nicely bundled flowers fresh from the florist this morning, and runs, but instead he cradles them to his chest like a safety pillow. _God no, please someone stuff my head in a pool and wake me up._

"I was so scared. So scared of you," his father drops to both of his knees. "So scared of this hyper ten-year old boy who would jump into my car when I said we were going to the hospital to see his mom. He would sing and show me his latest picture he had coloured that he was going to give his sick mother. I was _terrified_ when this little kid held my hand when I broke down in the waiting room and told me, 'bad things happen so we can have good things, dad. Bad things are happening now, but that must mean good things are going to come soon! We gotta know the bad so we can know the good. So, please don't let that make you sad, dad.' And all I could do was cling to that little kid that knew something a little kid shouldn't know at the age of ten. He shouldn't know the gravity of losing his mom. He should be running around the playground with his best friend, crying from scraping his knee, hiding his broccoli under his napkin, crawling under his parents' blankets when there is a lightning storm. Not this kind of tragedy." Stiles's dad cranks his body around and catches Stiles's eyes with his.

"Do you know why I was so scared, Stiles?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Wh-y?" His voice cracks.

"Because I just kept thinking, how am I going to raise this kid on my own? This kid that is taking care of his own _dad_ when his _mother_ is dying. How will I ever be a good enough father to take care a kid like that? And still I ask myself that question. After what happened a couple of days ago with that kid, Matt. It felt like that time all over again. I didn't have a single clue what I should do. Here this poor kid has a gun pointed at your head because he thinks he doesn't have any other choice, and I couldn't even stop him."

"Da-ad, that wasn't your fault. Matt was messed up. Sometimes there isn't anything you _can_ do. Someone can only be helped if they want to be helped. And Matt definitely didn't want help. At least not the good kind." Stiles mumbles, not wanting his father to place the blame on himself. He has nothing to do with what happened. This is Stiles's fault. It is because of Stiles that his dad was even there in the first place. If only-

"That's not the point, Stiles. It's my job before anything else in my life to protect you. Even back then. Especially back then when you were just a little kid." Mr. Stilinski chuckles, "now look at you. You'll be seventeen soon and a junior in highschool…" he shakes his head like he can't believe it.

"Y'know, it's all you. It's you, Stiles. You brought me back when I thought my life was ruined. You hear me? It's all because of you that no matter what we're going to be okay."

Stiles lands on the ground. He can feel the fabric in the dress pants tear, but that doesn't matter because he is crying. Sobbing into the flowers that he hides his face in. He feels strong arms envelop him, crushing the flowers between his and his father's chests. His sobs wrench out of him, like someone is stabbing him over and over again, trying to get at his soul buried securely inside of him.

Why, no, _how_ can his dad say things like that to him? He is just a hyperactive bastard that got his father fired from the one thing that keeps him going after the death of his wife, all because Stiles is a dumbass. He then hurls his dad into a situation that could have gotten him killed in several different and painful ways. And he couldn't even do a damn thing but crawl on the ground like a useless, helpless bug. That is what is he, a fucking dumbass, a fucking damn bug on the windshield of life that doesn't know what he is doing except running around, lying, stealing, failing his classes, and getting himself into danger because it isn't like his father hasn't lost enough as it is. And, in light of recent events, he could have even lost his _own _life; all because of Stiles.

His father questions if _he_ is good enough, then what does that make Stiles? Maybe his hallucination had been the truth, and his dad is just too kind to admit it. Maybe Stiles did kill his mother, and maybe he is killing his dad. Almost did. He could've – should've done more back then, but he didn't. He just skipped around in this illusion that his mom would get better, and they would go home to have his mom's famous cheesy potatoes and ham with tall glasses of milk and have sherbet afterwards before settling down to watch weekly sitcoms. He just wanted things to get better, but he didn't try to make them that way. He just hoped that some magic fairy would sprinkle her magical fairy dust over his mom, and she would return to perfect health. After all that time, after all those countless visits to the hospital, he just kept on believing in something that would never come true. And never did.

Stiles starts to sweat. His skin inches from hot to cold, and his throat seizes up like a dam keeping the air out. He hyperventilates into his dad's shoulder.

"Shush, it's alright Stiles, it's alright." Mr. Stilinski rubs his son's taut back, trying to soothe his body into remembering that air means oxygen, which means good. "Everything is okay now, son."

The father and son rock in front of the grave of their wife and mother until the son returns to normal breathing functions. His eyes are swollen, and his nose is draining all over his and his father's suits but when the two of them look at each other they can't help but laugh.

"I love you, dad." Stiles smiles.

"I love you, son."

* * *

Stiles remains planted at the cemetery when his dad drives to the police station after receiving a rather intriguing phone call. Stiles is tempted to tag along but he is emotionally zapped. Besides, he has the day off from school so he wants to take some time to himself. Plus, he doesn't like to talk to his mom in the presence of others. His words are for her and for her alone. He tells her about school and apologizes for it but explains it's all Scott's fault because he turned into a supernatural creature. This prompts Stiles into detailing the new world he lives in, which eventually leads to the subject of Derek. It is one thing to tell your mom that you are dating someone but it is another to say that you are "married." Derek doesn't like that word, but "bonded" seems a little dated for Stiles's taste. Stiles could just imagine his mom storming into Derek's house and demanding all sorts of things from him for stealing her son away from her. One, of course, would be having Derek make a meal with her. She judged the worth of someone as to how helpful they are in the kitchen. Stiles obviously has killer skills in the kitchen.

He sniffles and drags his nose across his sleeve.

"That's disgusting."

Stiles jumps and spins around to see Derek standing behind him with his hands in his jean pockets. His expression is neutral despite his comment.

"It's already ruined away." Stiles gestures to the rips in his pants at the knees and picks at a blade of grass. "What are you doing here?"

Derek shrugs and absently looks over the tombstones. "Just thought I would visit. It's been a while." He peers back at Stiles, then at the crumpled morning glories resting against the tombstone.

"Were those her favorite?" He inquires, crouching down.

"Yeah, she always liked the blue and yellow ones the best." Stiles laughs, "said that they were like growing the sky in your garden. She would plant them so there would be a big batch of blue ones and then a random patch of yellow ones."

"Like the sun." Derek smiles.

"Yeah, like the sun." Stiles smiles back.

Derek chuckles, which is completely unlike himself but Stiles rolls with it. "Y'know, it's ironic, but my mother use to grow moonflowers. They are related to morning glories but don't have the hallucinogenic properties." He gives Stiles a face.

Stiles shrugs and simpers. "What can I say?"

Derek rolls his eyes and goes on, "she'd have them grow up sunflower stalks. At first the moonflowers were too heavy and would bend the stalks, but she'd keep at them, using poles and," Derek snorts again, "these huge mirrors," he demonstrates the size with his hands, "to reflect the sun onto them. She killed a few of them, but eventually she had entire garden full of sunflowers and moonflowers. I remember Laura asking her one day why she had worked so hard to make it work, and she said, 'isn't it amazing that two flowers that live their lives differently need the same things and can exist so closely together? It's kind of like our family.' At the time I thought it was corny but now it seems appropriate."

"Moms are cheesy like that, huh?" Stiles says.

"Yeah, I guess they are." Derek's mouth quirks.

"I suppose that's why we love them." Stiles full on grins because he knows Derek never will. He needs to grin enough for the both of them. Especially now that they have shared their moms' flower stories.

"But something is still bothering you." Derek states more than asks.

Stiles loses his grin and studies Derek's evident muscles swelling under his grey long sleeve shirt for a moment, picks at some dirt in the groove of his shoe, and then rubs his buzzed head before letting out a grand sigh.

"I almost could have died a couple of days ago, and it's the death-day of my mom, Derek, of course something is bothering me. Ergo, it's none of your business."

"It is my business." Derek challenges.

"Oh, says who?" Stiles folds his arms across his chest matter-of-factly.

"Says this," Derek gestures to some invisible tether between them, "I know that you being a human makes the connection weaker, but for me I feel everything. Every little thing that you feel on your emotional roller coaster of being a teenager. So, don't say it's none of my business."

Stiles searches for the words that Derek doesn't speak on his face, in his eyes. He can see them, but they aren't written in any language that he knows. Stiles was just starting to feel better, why is Derek poking at aching scars? Oh, that's right, because it's Derek.

"I am touched that you care, really I am," Stiles pats his chest where his heart is. "But, believe it or not, I actually have things I don't like talking about."

"Well, believe it or not, I'm asking you to talk." Derek mimics Stiles's tone.

"Someone get me a calendar, I need to mark this day on it. Derek telling me to talk, _talk!_ It's unbelievable. I need to call the national news. Everyone needs to be informed of this glorious moment. It'll be something recorded in every history book on the face of the Earth!" Stiles waves his hands around in grandeur.

"Shut up, Stiles."

"Which is it, talk or not to talk, that is the question? Wavering from what you want and what you don't want is making this guy confused as to how you really feel about him." This time, Stiles places both of his hands to his chest and clenches his shirt like he is experiencing internal pain.

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a mystery." Derek topples Stiles into the grass; obviously realizing whatever he is trying to get out of Stiles isn't going happen.

Stiles cheekily flashes a look at Derek and scrambles to his feet. "You hungry?"

* * *

**Rest assured, the next chapter will be more lighthearted. **

**I must reveal to you that when Derek said, "it's ironic...moonflowers...morning glories..." that it really was ironic because I innocently decided that Stiles's mom would like morning glories (something different than roses or lilies) and wanted Derek's mom to do something with moonflowers and sunflowers, because y'know, the whole werewolf thing. Going for the cheesiness, I won't deny it. And trying to be the botanist that I'm not I did some research and discovered, much to my surprise delight, morning glories and moonflowers are related. I felt the presence of the Sterek gods. And, even tho it did not yield as exciting of results, I did find a method to growing moonflowers on sunflowers, but like Derek said, they are heavy, but that is what creative freedom is all about. Making things work that shouldn't.**

**Oh, and Derek did admit why he was really there at the cemetery, just not in so many words. Did you catch it? ;)**


	7. Be Careful Of The Curse

**Now what is this, Derek being funny? That's right, prepare yourself. **

**Well, the finale has come and gone, which means updates are not going to be as frequent cause I have to go back to writing. Before I had anything typed up and was just proofreading. I was just waiting the finale to see everything summed up. I suppose in a good way, there isn't much from the finale that will weave into this story, which is fine because I have a totally different idea as to what I want to happen. I'll maybe throw in a few things, especially what with happens to Stiles (no spoiler) in the beginning of the episode.**

**But what did you all think of the finale? I thought it was a little eh. I _adored_ the cast but they seemed a little stiff and unreacting. There were some unexpected twists tho, I liked that.**

* * *

****Be Careful Of The Curse

Derek carts Stiles to a diner. It is sluggish but that suits Stiles and Derek just fine. They park themselves into a booth toward the back of the establishment, not wanting the company of listening ears. Stiles comments on the décor coating the walls like weird-patterned wallpaper when the waitress saunters up. She looks like a high school dropout, snapping her old gum and placing the menus in front of them.

"Can I get you anything to drink right away?" Out of her waist apron she pulls out her notepad and a fuzzy pink pen, preparing for their orders.

"I'll have some orange juice." Stiles wiggles out of his suit jacket, hanging it on the back of the booth.

"Coffee, two creams." Derek says, watching Stiles in action.

"Oh-okay." The waitress finally really looks at the pair, specifically Derek, who's got his arms folded on the table, unintentionally, but most likely intentionally, showing off his arm and shoulder muscles. "I'll be right back with your coffee and cream, handsome." She taps the cover of menu waiting in front of Derek to get his attention before sashaying off.

"And my orange juice!" Stiles calls. "Seriously, dude, you need to get bigger shirts." He advises, picking up his menu.

"I like this shirt just fine." Derek mirrors Stiles and retreats to reading the options.

"Everyone likes that shirt just fine, my friend." Stiles peers at Derek.

"Do you?" Derek's eyes flash up over the menu. There is an obvious smirk hidden behind the glossy pages.

"I plead the fifth and deny comment."

They leave that to go wherever it was going and silently chose their lunch, well brunch because it is only 10:42AM, until Miss Interested returns with their beverages. By some stroke of luck she remembered Stiles's orange juice.

"Are you ready to order, or do you still need some time to look over the menu, sweet cheeks?" She asks Derek because Stiles may as well be a fly on the wall.

Derek meets Stiles's criticizing eyes for a moment then shifts his body to openly address the waitress. "Actually," he lapses into the biggest smile Stiles's has ever witnessed, "I think I'm ready to order."

Stiles gapes. The waitress waivers a bit on her feet.

"I'll have the BLT, extra bacon if that wouldn't be too much to ask. I think I'll have a side of eggs too, sunny side up, and some hash browns." Derek actually _laughs_ like he thinks something is actually _funny_. "I hope it's not too obvious that I didn't have dinner last night."

The waitress bobbles her head like she is agreeing with him, before blinking rapidly and smiling sickenly sweet. "Only a little bit," she _winks_. "But that's all right, I like a man with a big appetite. As the saying goes, 'the best way to a man's heart is through his stomach.' And with an appetite like yours, it'll only make it easier." If the manager hadn't happened to waltz on by and click her tongue at the waitress, Stiles is pretty sure she would have mauled Derek right on the spot. After Derek laughs and says something probably charming, the waitress _almost_ overlooks Stiles's order before leaving. Derek just _stares_ at Stiles when he fumbles over his order of Belgium waffles topped with strawberries and an extra side of _bacon_.

Finally, the waitress is gone, but Derek is still sporting a shit-eating grin.

"Shut up." Stiles chides because Derek's face is saying just how much he enjoyed that.

He just shrugs innocently, "I didn't say anything."

"That's the point," Stiles gestures to all of Derek's being, "you don't have to."

"Was that a compliment?" Derek raises an eyebrow.

"Absolutely," Derek's eyebrows both shoot up, "not."

The Alpha rolls his eyes and peels off the cream lids before dumping the contents into his steaming coffee.

"I would have taken you to be a black coffee kind of guy." Stiles comments, stirring his orange juice with its straw.

"I guess I am just full of surprises." Derek sips the coffee, looking at Stiles over the cup like a predator.

"Yeah, like what was that _smile_? I didn't know you had so many teeth." Derek gives him a dubious look, "well, so to speak." Stiles adds.

"I think I hear a bit of jealousy in your voice, Stiles." Derek taps on his ear after he sets down his cup.

"You'd better get your ears checked then. Because it was _definitely not _jealousy." Stiles defends.

"Oh, what was that?" Derek cocks his head to the side like he is listening intently; "I think I just heard your heart blip, like you were lying."

"I-I'm not lying, you Sourwolf."

"Is that the sound of your heart rate going up?"

"Yeah, because I'm getting ready to punch you in the face!"

"Oh yeah? Go ahead and try it."

"Maybe I will." Stiles loosens his tie and then flops it over his shoulder. "Bring it on, Fido."

"Remember that time when I said I'd rip your throat out with my teeth?" Derek ruffles at the dog jab but still looks mildly amused.

"Yeah, well, I'd say you were all bark and no bite, but I suppose that isn't so true anymore, is it?"

Derek deadpans at this. He slumps back in the booth, and Stiles does the same.

The bold and somber silent makes its reappearance between the space of Derek and Stiles humbly staring at each other. After a few moments they both respectively adapt self-entertainments: Derek judging the wall décor and the gloomy clouds peeking in through the windows, and Stiles tugging off his tie to stuff in his jacket pocket, unbuttoning the top buttons of his dress shirt, and rolling up his sleeves to the elbows.

The waitress, Janice, because she found her nametag, trots up with a tray full of steaming food. Naturally, she meticulously arranges Derek's order in front of him, adjusting the plates to perfection. While Stiles's on the other hand, she nearly drops his food in front of him.

"Is there anything I can get you right away, sugar?" She asks Derek, "maybe some more coffee?"

"No. Thanks." Derek picks his fork up and glances at her as if he is wondering why she is still standing there, begging like a dog for a bone. "Maybe later."

Janice puzzles at Derek's 180 on the attitude scale but smiles all the same, and scowls at Stiles, obviously dubbing him the blame for Derek's sour mood. Which, Stiles supposes it probably is his fault. But whatever.

"_Thank you._" Stiles beats her scowl down. They lock in an epic stare-down before she makes a face at him and marches away. "Women." He mutters before digging into his waffles. Derek has already polished through half of his eggs.

The rest of the time they eat in a respectable quiet, one that says they are too hungry to use their mouths for talking, and that they are just trying to figure out what they should say once they are done eating. They have talked about the bond but not what they _think_ about being quote on quote, "married." The best that Stiles and Derek have ever been is frienemies. One minute saving each other from killer wolfsbane bullets, being caught by the law, psycho uncle Alphas, nearly drowning from being paralyzed from the neck down in eight feet of water, seconds from being mauled by a moon-crazed werewolf, and probably several other unintentional moments. The next minute, here they sit, married by some ridiculous werewolf contract because Stiles just happened to fall into some good-smelling flowers at the wrong time.

"Boyd and Erica are leaving." Derek initiates once he finishes off his BLT and goes to conquer the rest of his hash browns.

"What?" Stiles looks up unexpectedly, "what do you mean, 'they are leaving'?"

"After what happened with the kanima and hunters the other night they decided they want out of my pack. Got scared, I guess. Isaac is probably going to join them." Derek doesn't look at Stiles even though Stiles has abandoned the last bite of his waffles and two remaining pieces of bacon.

"But, but where are they going to go?"

Derek shrugs, "apparently they heard another pack nearby. They think that if they find another one they'll have a better chance at survival."

"Well, do they?" Stiles asks even though he doesn't really want to.

"No." Derek at last looks up, "they might as well start digging their graves. Without me they won't have a chance. If they think they can just run away, they had better know that they'll never stop. No matter where they run to, the hunters, Gerard, will find them and kill them without mercy." Derek is unmistakably forbidding, "what would you do, Stiles? Would you stay with your Alpha and fight, or go searching for another pack that you may not even find before it's too late?"

"I-" The human botches his thoughts, "I dunno."

"Yes you do, Stiles. You know you won't run. You'd fight because that is the only way to truly survive. There is strength in numbers, real strength. You _know_ you couldn't do it on your own."

"Derek, I'm just a human." Stiles is now the one to look away, "for a human sometimes the best option is to run."

"But if you were a werewolf-"

"But I'm not!" Stiles says a little more loudly than anticipated. "I want to help, but I can't _do_ the things that you can do… I can't. The other night seeing my dad get hit over the head by Matt, y'know, while I'm just laying there and I can't even move. It just…"

All the smoke fueling Derek's fire fizzles out. Maybe he now remembers what kind of day, week, Stiles has been having. Either way, Stiles continues to talk, "losing Isaac, Boyd, and Erica is going to make you weak, isn't it?"

Derek nods, contemplating the temperature of his remaining coffee because he would rather than thinking about the gravity of losing his pack.

"Then why don't you ask Scott? You always go looking for his support when stuff like this happens."

"I don't think I can trust Scott anymore."

"What do you mean by that? I know you don't have a lot of trust in people nowadays, but at least with Scott-"

"Did he tell you what happened the other night at the police station? What he did?" Derek has his serious-as-a-heart-attack face on.

"He told me _why_ Matt went off his rocker and used Jackson to go after the '06 swim team, and that the hunters were there-"

"Did he tell you _how_ the hunters knew that we would all be there?" Derek interrupts.

"Ah-no." Stiles looks confused and suspicious. "Lucky guess?"

"Luck has nothing to do with it. Did you _best friend_ tell you that he is working with Gerard? Did your _best friend_ tell you that he lured everyone to the police station so that Gerard and his hunters could take Matt and Jackson down? It was because of Scott that your father could've been killed by that kid. That _you_ could have." Derek is leaning over the table to consume all of Stiles's attention.

"So, why would I ask for his help? The hunters are already after my head; what would make me think that Scott isn't trying to lead them right to me?"

"Scott won't do that." Stiles pathetically preserves even though he is reeling from this new information. Scott and him haven't talked much since the other night but this; this would have been a good thing to mention on Scott's part.

"Not unless it's for Allison. It is always about Allison."

Stiles inhales, "he-he still won't- Scott wouldn't do that to you. There's no way-"

"Did he also tell you that she was there that night?" Derek adds, "I could hear her. Especially when she and Scott ran into each other, and she told him that she wants _me dead._"

Stiles's expression is at a lost. How could Scott keep this all from him? Sure, they have been more focused on trying not to die then hanging out like normal friends and talking about stuff like they use too, but this was beyond Stiles's comprehension. Stiles is use to secrets, he obviously has a dresser drawer full of them, but he never knew Scott to keep one from him. Stiles was the one that first helped Scott when he became a creature of the night, and continued to help them when the road got bumpy, and Stiles's well-being fell off the backend of the truck. Even when Stiles became second best next to Allison, he still kept Scott first in his book. How could he do this to him?

"More coffee, honey buns?"

Both boys rotate to the one with the question and the disturbing pet name. It is Janice, perky and holding a pot of coffee.

"No, we'll be leaving." Derek says, glancing at Stiles.

"Oh, oh – are you sure?" She fumbles in her waist apron for their bill. "Already?" She hesitates to deliver the last connection between her and Derek.

"Yes," Derek snatches the bill from her hands, skims it over, then digs out his wallet and throws down a twenty. "Keep the change."

He none to gently pushes her out of his way with his presence as he slides out of the booth, eyeing Stiles to do the same. The boy is caught off guard by Derek's sudden need to change the scene, and scrambles out. Gathering his suit jacket in his arms, Stiles briefly looks at the bill to see Janice will be getting a 19-cent tip before stumbling after Derek.

* * *

Derek generously drives Stiles home. The only talking done in the car is Stiles on his cellphone, leaving a message for his dad to know that he "walked" home. After that, Stiles stares out the window, and Derek drives the Camero. They finally roll into Stiles's neighborhood, and Derek parks at the entrance of the Stilinski driveway.

"Well, thanks for lunch. I'll-I'll see ya around, I guess." Stiles awkwardly utters.

"Which side are you on?" Derek responds.

"What-?"

"Which side are you on, Scott's or mine?"

"Derek, man, you know I wouldn't be able to pick. Besides, I don't know how that'd make a difference to _any _of this." Stiles exasperates, waving his hands around.

"It makes all the difference, Stiles. The Argents want me dead, and your best friend could be the very reason that happens. Do you want that?" Derek turns off the engine, definitely meaning business. "I suppose you might. I remember you saying on countless occasions that Scott should've just left me for dead."

"I don't regret those times," Stiles automatically says. "Well, fine, yes I do. But you're asking me to pick between my best friend since kindergarten and whatever this is?" Stiles gestures to the invisible tether Derek made note of earlier.

"Then the choice should be pretty easy, shouldn't it?" Derek grinds his teeth.

"Oh, don't give me that. You know I wouldn't just dump your werewolf ass on the side of the road." Stiles declares with certainty, and Derek returns to him a familiar doubtful look. "Okay, maybe _once upon a time_ I would have, but not now."

The doubtful look is crowded by a confused one.

"I mean, as much as we have issues with each other, to the point it is barely possible for us to be in the same state, it doesn't mean that I don't get how this," a nod at the invisible tether, "is important. To you. To… us." Ugh, chick flick moment, but Derek's harden expression seems to soften with suspicion.

"And I'm suppose to trust you because of some fancy words?"

"Well, isn't the person that you are married, 'bonded,' to the first and the last person that you should trust?"

Derek is quiet for a few breaths, studying every inch of Stiles with his super vision to see a fault in his integrity, listening with his bat-like hearing for any reservation in his words and heart. Stiles doesn't know if Derek finds any but he does ask, "can I trust you?"

"You can trust me when I say I don't want you to get hurt." Stiles adds, "well, too much," and winks to break the tension.

Derek exhales and rolls his eyes.

"I'll talk to you later, Derek." Stiles senses the finality of the conversation and opens the car door. "See ya."

Stiles steps out into the street and shuts the door behind him. But before he can round the car, he hears the riving of an engine and tires squealing against the pavement. In a heartbeat, Stiles whips his head around to the noise. In another heartbeat, he is slammed up against the car door, and a black sedan goes screaming by. The tires crunching pebbles in the spot he had been standing.

Stiles gasps into a grey chest. Derek is looming over him, all up in his bubble like that fateful night so long ago. His arms and legs frame Stiles's, keeping him trapped against car. Stiles's hands are gripping the ends of Derek's shirt. How they got there, he doesn't know.

"Oh-oh my G-God, shit. Who-who the hell was that?" He stutters, peering over Derek's massive shoulder for the ghost of the sedan.

"The Argents." Derek looks down at Stiles, his nose clearing Stiles's by mere centimeters. "You okay?"

"J-just peachy. Were, were they trying to hit _me_?" Derek steps back, but only a little bit so that Stiles's doesn't feel the need to remove his hands just yet. "What did I do t-to them? Aren't they supposed to be the, uhm, protectors of mankind?" Stiles looks like he has a dozen more questions tapping the back of his teeth.

"I don't know. It was probably just to threaten me. Not you. They won't hurt you." Derek says with not has much confidence as Stiles would have liked. He then sharply looks at Stiles, grabbing his shoulders and making the boy jump. "Does anyone know about this?"

Stiles works out what Derek means for a moment and starts to shake his head, "just your pack, Scott – shit. Shit, shit, shit. Allison knows. Scott told her. _I _told her. I frickin' went to her for advice about- you don't think she would have told Gerard? She won't do that."

"I don't know what she won't do." Derek tightens his hands on Stiles's shoulders, Stiles unconsciously does the same to Derek's shirt. "This could be a problem.

* * *

**SPOILER!: Janice comes into Stiles's room and attacks him with her coffee pot.**


	8. With Your Voice, I Want To Pour It Out

**New chapter! I don't want to say this is a filler because that implies it is pointless. Which, I suppose, there is some redundancy, but with a purpose! Things that needed to be addressed or mentioned. Consider it a prelude. I have to say tho, writing Danny and Stiles was one of the hardest things for this story I've had to do. Their humor, at least Danny's, feels very familiar to write, so having them banter was a challenge. Putting two snarky people in the same room is like watching an explosion, but it is hard to rig the bomb. **

* * *

With Your Voice, I Want To Pour It Out

Stiles is appreciating Danny in the locker room one morning. Not because Danny likes to stand around without his shirt on, but because Stiles realizes he will be his savior.

The problem had just kind of bubbled up like spring an afternoon in pre-calculus when Stiles noticed a familiar black Camero lurking in the park lot. It had been maybe three, four days after Stiles's near hit-and-run when Derek stayed the night to make sure Stiles knew actually how conflicted he was about either staying away from Stiles or hovering like a helicopter. That morning Stiles had practically rocketed out of bed and down stairs because he had enough of sharing his space. He wanted some well deserved privacy. Derek, however, had remained in his room until Stiles returned to get his backpack for school. Stiles was not impressed and told him would be more than happy to tell his dad he has a strange man in his bed if Derek didn't leave in three seconds. Derek did leave, but Stiles had been left feeling a bit awkward.

The revelation had dawned on Stiles by the sight of Derek watching him through the windows of the school as he doodled stick figure vampires in his math notebook. It had made his heart drum a steady but growing beat. It had stirred up butterflies, knocking them into each other around in his stomach. The sweat pores in his hands had been relentless when he tried to rub them dry on his pants. He had glanced at Scott, wondering if he could notice, but Scott was busy ignoring him. There is a prickly tension between them that Stiles is still mustering up the courage to address since it doesn't look like Scott is going to.

Something terrible is coming. He isn't sure if the calm had come and passed or he is in it now, but he knows a storm is fast approaching. The hunters threatening him maybe rattled some sense into him, but he can feel things crumbling between Scott and him. Just like it is more than obvious that there are just strings between Scott and Allison. But first, he had realized, he needed to do something about_ this_.

"Danny boy!" Stiles greets, slapping Danny's arm.

"No." Danny denies, slick from a shower. His eyes dart around the locker room in search of Jackson. His best friend whose sensibility is currently AWOL.

"I didn't even ask you anything yet." Stiles is mildly offended.

"No, I don't think you are attractive." Danny looks down on him.

"Wha-what! I'm _gorgeous_."

Danny shrugs and pulls his polo over his head, "you're not my type."

"I'm _everyone's_ type."

Danny bursts out in laughter, "that's what Jackson said."

Stiles reels back, "ew, no, nevermind. I'll gladly not be your type for the sake of not being like Jackson." He flaps around like he touched some disgusting.

Danny chuckles again, "so what do you want, Stiles?"

"You." Stiles eyes him seriously, making Danny knit his eyebrows together with panic. "To help me."

"Help you with what-? Because I'm definitely not going to be an 'experiment' for you just because you found the darker parts of the Internet and are now curious."

"Is that what happened to you?" Stiles inquires distractedly.

"No." Danny sidesteps him and reaches for his duffle bag on the bench.

"Oh, well, that's not quite what I'm asking your help with. Even though, I suppose it could be slightly, not really, but probably a lot related to that." Stiles awkwardly looks around at the lacrosse team to see if any were turning heads yet.

"Stiles," Danny decompresses and gives Stiles more of his attention than Stiles was prepared for, "are you gay?"

Stiles flails, hitting Danny in the chin with an untamed fist. "No! Oh, geesh, sorry Danny. Are you okay?"

"Fine, I'm fine," Danny rubs his jaw, "then what is it you want?"

"Can we take this somewhere private?" Stiles feels uncomfortable, especially when Coach Finstock starts talking about his one testicle again to Greenberg. "Oh God, I swear the day I die is the day Coach decides he needs to _prove_ he only has one testicle."

Danny solemnly nods his head in agreement, and they filter out of the locker room, not without Scott eyeballing Stiles from his locker. Stiles makes a charade of hand signals to explain, but Scott shrugs.

They step down the hallway a ways until Danny uses up all of his patience and stops. It is still early morning so there aren't many drifters. "Okay, Stilinski."

"Well, okay, uh." Stiles starts, "uhm, yeah, y'know what, nevermind, sorry for buggin' ya," and drops off. He spins around on his heel, but Danny's got a hand on his arm.

"Stiles, come on, you wouldn't be bugging me if you didn't have a good reason." Danny tries to sympathize.

"Ch-ha, I'm sure." Stiles mocks himself.

Danny shrugs, "yeah, well that's what I like to tell myself."

"And I encourage you to continue that."

"So, what's going on?"

"Well, uh, um… there's this guy…"

"So you are gay?"

"No!" Stiles starts to pace around in a circle, "well, I dunno. Ugh," He makes some more unintelligent noises, "girls have it so much easier with these feelings."

"Hey now," Danny censures.

"Oh right, sorry." Stiles apologizes.

"No, it's not what you think; gays, girls, lesbians, guys, and everything in between and beyond have it rough. It's not easy for anyone." Danny explains, looking wise for his years.

Stiles stares at him before bowing, "sensei, please teach me the ways of the world."

Danny raises an eyebrow, "how about we start with what's bothering you."

"Then can I start in the middle and work from there?" Stiles scrubs his buzz, "because I honestly don't know where or when it started."

"Sure." Danny drops his duffle bag on the ground and settles against a locker.

Stiles picks up his pacing, "well there's guy, dark, brooding, doesn't smile much, and honestly there wasn't a fiber of his being that I could say I liked. But then we, sorta, 'bonded' over something and now we are kinda stuck together. At first we weren't happy about it. Not even like, 'Yay! Here's a chance to get to know each other!' but that is exactly what happened and now I don't know."

Danny motions for him to continue, "and well, he turns out to be _okay_. I think we are getting along now, actually. Which is totally not okay because this guy is unbelievable. He doesn't listen, he doesn't follow anyone's rules but his own, he's always got a problem with _something_, and he wears too tight of shirts or doesn't wear a shirt at all!"

Danny smirks at the last comment but Stiles isn't derailed, he barely notices. "He's got trust issues, he doesn't want anyone's opinion even if it's _right_ and he's _wrong_, he's impulsive, he's the 'shoot first, doesn't bother with questions later' kind of guy, and now he thinks he can lord over me because I'm some kind of weakling. Like he is some noble citizen helping an old man across the street. I mean, Danny, this guy doesn't have 'caring' in his vocabulary, or 'positivity,' or 'optimism,' or anything in the spectrum of happiness. He is cynical and stubborn and bossy," Stiles rants on.

"If I could interrupt," Danny does in the heart of Stiles's rambles. "I think I know what the problem is now."

"Really?" Stiles beams with hopefulness.

"Yeah, I kinda figured it out a couple of complaints ago."

"A couple of worthy complaints that needed to be expressed."

"Whatever, the point is Stiles, you like him."

"Absolutely not. No." Stiles finally stops moving. "_That _is what you _figured out_ after I spent the better part of two minutes _dissing_ him?"

"Fine, are you still hanging out with him?"

"Yeah, I suppose I see him every day. But why-"

"Then, Stilinski, no matter how much you complain about him, the fact that you still are with him explains that you. Like. Him." Danny pushes off the locker, scoops up his duffle bag, and asks, "okay, so with that case closed, can I go? I need to go talk to the guidance councilor before first period."

"Sure, whatever," Stiles waves him off, thoroughly miffed.

Danny pats his shoulder when he passes by him, "and good luck, he sounds like a handful."

Stiles snorts, "you have no idea."

* * *

It probably would have been a better idea not to sit two seats diagonal of Allison in English. But in his defense, he sat down first. Before he realized he is going to be daggered all period by Allison's wicked stare, the bell rings and any decisions on seating arrangements are final. The teacher starts up by revealing their newest boring read. _The Brothers Karamazov_. Stiles already knows he is going to hate it. When it drops on his desk, he is for sure he hates it. Its yellow pages and breaching over 600 pages, with full pages of single paragraphs made of pure dialogue that are single-spaced and in a font that is barely readable. What the hell? Stiles can barely make it through _Curious George_ and that is solely looking at the pictures. And then there is Allison.

He performs the classic yawn/stretch routine to peek over his shoulder. She is focusing _right at him_ and smiling like a Cheshire cat. He frantically searches for Scott but sees him having a staring contest with his notebook from across the room.

"Scott," Stiles says under his breath. "Scott, your girlfriend is going to eat me."

He watches Scott's body jerk as he snorts but that's all he does. No, "I've got'cha, buddy, I won't let her maim and torture you even though she is from a family of murderous hunters." Some friend.

Stiles sighs and slouches in his chair, preparing to not listen as Miss Teedres starts explaining why _The Brothers Karamazov_ is worthy of being read when someone behind him slides a note down his chest, dropping it into his lap. Stiles glances behind him to see David pointing at Allison. She smirks and raises her eyebrows like they are best buds. Stiles shivers and dares to open the note, fearing it says, "seven days." Instead it says, **can we meet after class?**

For the rest of the class, Stiles distracts himself by writing his reply, then colouring it in to make it bold and obvious, just in case Allison tries anything funny. By five minutes until class ends, and everyone is over pretending to read, Stiles hands his note to David to deliver.

"I better get paid for this." He mutters.

"Dude, two notes, deal." Stiles mumbles. If Stiles was ever partnered with David for a group project, he would pay for David to _stop_ breathing.

Stiles taps his foot to the second hand moving until the bell rings. He already has his books in his lap, so quick departure is possible. Yet, somehow, Allison is right at his heel.

"Stiles, hold on. I just want to talk." She uses that voice that makes people look at him like he's done something wrong, and she is trying to amend it. But he isn't buying it. He tries to ignore her and thanks whoever decided she would be wearing heels today. But it seems like all women know how to master the power-walk with heels on, so Stiles is yanked to a stop by a forceful hand on his arm.

"Come here." She demands lowly and drags him into an unoccupied classroom.

"Uh, I have gym, and I actually like gym, so can we do this another time?" Allison forces him away from the door and slams it shut. "Oh, hey! It looks like my schedule opened up. But y'know, I thought my reply was pretty obvious. Two letters,** N.O**. Not quite sure how you missed that-"

"Shut the hell up, Stiles." She's got that scary face girls can genetically form when they alter their mood just right.

"Yeah, okay." He squeaks.

"You are only here because my _father_ wants me to pass on a warning. Some 'code' thing."

"Oh, that's kind of him." Stiles does a twitchy attempt for a smile.

Allison rolls her eyes, "it's stupid, but this is the only way to shut him up. He wants me to tell you that if you stay away from _Derek_, you won't get hurt."

"So, you trying to attack me with your car was, what? The first warning?"

"Yeah, but my father thought it was too rash." Allison folds her arms in accusation, "yet, I'm pretty sure you let that disgusting monster stay the night at your house, in your bed." She sneers, "at least that's what one of our scouts said."

"First of all, he doesn't _sleep_ in my _bed. _And second of all, you have scouts watching me?" Stiles is a little creeped out and glances around.

Allison shrugs unreassuringly. "Last time I'll say this, Stiles. Stay away from him. We've already made it a standard that anyone that gets in the way of us killing Derek will be killed too."

And with that cheerful note, Allison leaves Stiles to ponder his newest threat against his life when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He fishes it out to see a little box titled, **Scott**. Intrigued, Stiles reads the message, **we need 2 tlk**. Stiles looks at the time to see it's two-twenty-four and then types his response, **yeah, i think we do**.

* * *

They are sitting in Stiles's jeep in the school parking out. It's right after school, and the sun is at the level that sun-visors are useless. There is a lot of nervous shuffling and gawkily side glances.

"So." They begin at the same time. Then laugh.

"Dude, this is stupid." Stiles chuckles.

"I know, what happened with us?"

"Girls," and Stiles means Derek when he says this. Stiles is certain that Scott is his best friend when Scott giggles deliberately.

"But I think there is something you forgot to tell me the night Matt went ape-shit crazy. Well, when he hit the top level of ape-shit crazy." Stiles prods.

Scott hesitates at first, "ah, yeah. I just," he sighs irritably at himself, "I didn't know how to say it."

"How about, 'hey Stiles, just a heads up but I'm working with Gerard, and we've got a plan to take down Matt and Jackson, don't tell your dad.'" Stiles supplies helpfully but if not a bit bitterly.

"It wasn't suppose to happen like that, I swear. Gerard said he had everything under control. I didn't know Matt was going to take us hostage, or kill all those police officers, or involve your dad like that."

"That reminds me, he was promoted sheriff again." Stiles slips in.

"Really? That's awesome, why?" Scott grins.

"They said it was because of his bravery and cracking the case on Matt, so I suppose I should thank you for that."

"No, you shouldn't."

"You're right, because I'm not going to."

"Stiles, man, you're my best friend. I don't want anything to happen to you." Scott almost whines.

"Yeah, well, shit happens to me anyway, but that's what I signed up for when I decided I was going to help you. But we're supposed to tell each other when things have gone from bad to worse. Like how Allison has gone to the dark side and wants kill Derek, which, by the way, _why_?"

"Derek bit her mom. He turned her. They weren't, she wasn't, going to live like that." Scott whispers, clenching his jeans at the knees. "But he only did it because she was trying to kill me."

"Oh my God, Scott, why haven't you been telling me these things!?" Stiles shouts, banging his hands on the steering wheel and rocking his crappy seat back and forth. "Allison's mom tried to kill you?"

"Yeah, with this weird wolfsbane incense. It was when we were at the Rave."

"So that's why Derek had to drag you out? I thought Jackson got you."

"No… and Allison, she doesn't know that, she thinks that Derek just bit her mom. And Gerard… Stiles, Gerard is in control of the kanima now." Scott breathes uneasily. "He said he was going to help us stop Jackson, but he came to my house, almost _killed my mom_, threatened that if I don't get him Derek he'll make Jackson kill everyone!"

Stiles is horrified in every possible sense of the word. When did this happen? _How_ did this happen? Where along the lines did hunting down a kanima because of some kid almost drowning when he was nine years old and was out for revenge lead them to this point? Stiles is always up for an adventure, but things are spiraling out of control, and he wants off this ride. And as much as the kanima is a scary monster you'd leave a night-light on for, Gerard is the fucking monster under the bed, hiding in your closet, the Freddy Kruger of their lives. An old man so hardened and accomplished from his years that two sixteen-year-old boys had nothing up on him. What are they supposed to do?

"Did he say when he wanted Derek all wrapped up and packaged?" Stiles barely manages to ask.

"I don't know, soon, because there isn't going to be a later."

"Oh, and there maybe a slight other problem."

"What? Another one? How could this get any worse?" Scott's got his strained, panicked voice on high.

"Well, Derek's got this theory. Well, maybe not a theory because there isn't really any hardcore evidence, maybe more like a hypothesis-"

"Stiles!"

"Okay! So, after we went to see my mom-"

"Oh my God, I totally forgot." Scott groans an interjection, "dude, I'm so sorry. How was it? Did everything go all right? Cause last year your dad…"

"It was fine, he was fine. We had a heart-to-heart. I actually think that whole thing with Matt did us some good." Stiles responses thoughtfully to the switch of topic.

"Really? That's great!" Scott smiles widely and smacks Stiles's arm good-naturedly. "Man, that's really great!"

"Probably helped that he was reinstated that day too."

Scott shrugs. "Maybe."

They both know what that "maybe" means so there is no reason to explain the knowing smile between them.

"And then Derek came by and took me out to lunch. Paid for me and everything." Stiles off-handedly says as they watch a couple of classmates, two guys, suddenly embrace each other and start playing tonsil hockey against a car. Danny is the only known openly gay guy at the school currently, and he isn't one of them. _Adding those two to the Secret Lover's list_, Stiles mentally notes._ For any possible blackmail use, of course. That guy shouldn't be able to get his leg like that – oh wait. _

Scott gestures random signals, signaling confusion, "what? Whoa, back up. Derek took _you out to lunch_? That's so… not like Derek. Are you sure you weren't dreaming?"

"Wow, is that really what you think I'd dream about? I have three hundred and forty seven _other_ things I could come up with that I'd rather dream about then Derek taking me out to lunch." Stiles scowls.

"So, it really happened. He took you out to lunch." Scott slouches in the ratty seat, looking shell-shocked.

"Why is that so hard to believe?" Stiles is slightly fronted by Scott's reaction.

"It's _Derek_." Scott says like it explains everything.

Stiles ponders Scott's logic. "You make a good case," his logic is sound. "Which leads me to what happened after that…"

"No!" Scott claps his hands over his ears, "no, I do _not_ want to hear about_ that_!"

Stiles miffs, "what'd you mean? What do you _think_ we did?"

Scott gives him an obvious look, hands still in place.

"Okay, no, that's not fair. You don't see me doing this," Stiles motions distastefully at Scott's position, "when you start talking about you and Allison. Besides _if_ something like that did happen, which _it didn't_, I'd at least like to know my best friend would put up listening to my conquests as nicely as I do for him."

"So, you didn't do… _that_ with Derek?" Scott slowly removes his hands, cautiously allowing in hope.

"No, Scott, I didn't _have sex with Derek._" Scott flinches, "God, how old are you?"

"It's not that, it's imaging Derek having sex… with you." Scott shutters.

"What's that suppose to mean? You don't think Derek doesn't want to do it with me? Ah, hello?" Stiles gesticulates to all of him. "Who wouldn't want to have a piece of this?"

"Do you want Derek to want to do it with you?" Scott asks the real question of the night.

Stiles gapes like a breathy fish for a moment or four until he smacks the steer wheeling, "can we get back to what I was trying to tell you?"

"Please."

"So, Derek dropped me off at my house, but when I got out of the car, all of a sudden a black sedan, like what the hunters use, tried… to… hit me…" Stiles putters out of volume at last part. But Scott hears just fine.

"They what!" Scott shouts.

"Don't worry, Derek got me out of the way…" Stiles trails into reverie.

"Why? Are you sure they were going after you? Not Derek? Why would they go after you?" Scott is back to strained, panicky voice again.

"Well… Derek's theory, like I was saying, is they maybe after me because of the bond. Y'know, like leverage. Allison must have told Gerard. Since you told her, and I told her. Even went to her for advice about Derek."

"You went to get advice from _her_ about _Derek?_" Now, with things like how they are that just seems utterly silly. Suicidal.

"I figured she'd have some pointers with dating you."

"So, they're going to go after you now?" Scott looks like he as a million and one things racing underneath his wavy black locks.

"I dunno know, maybe. Allison sorta went badass on my ass today and told me to stay away from Derek. But, I don't think it should be major concern. Just thought, y'know with us not keeping secrets from each other anymore, you'd like to know." Stiles starts the engine and flips on the headlights; it's officially dinnertime.

Scott absently nods his head, all ready focusing all his energies and brainpower to processing this new information.

"I'm thinking burgers?" Stiles shifts the gears and starts to roll them out of the parking lot.

"Sounds great, Stiles!" Stiles mimics Scott's voice. Maybe making it a little higher than necessary.

"Where'd you like to go, Scott?" Stiles asks.

"Anywhere you'd like to go, buddy!" Stiles answers himself.

"Aw, thanks Scott, you're a pal."

* * *

**Aw, they made up =) I was debating having a disagreement between Stiles and Scott for some drama, but when I went into their discussion this is what came out. They are just too good of friends. But I'm okay with that. Derek is enough of a drama queen for this story.**

**Spelling/grammar errors, do tell. I can't seem to type coherent things as of late.  
**


	9. I'm Making To Attack

**More build up, but I promise, next chapter is going to be intense. **

**And let me say, thank you for all the support, it keeps me motivated! =)**

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I'm Making To Attack

Stiles rolls himself out of bed, dropping like a cat onto the floor. That is with his face slightly intimate with the carpet. Contrary to popular belief, Monday's aren't the hardest days to pry one's self from bed with the Jaws of Life. It is actually Friday's. The weekend mindset is all comfortably settled in your bones, but you still have to get up for one more day of school. At least, this is something Stiles's believes in, and so he shamelessly crawls on all fours to the bathroom. Disrobing on the floor, he hurtles the bath-shower wall and turns on the heat. But what comes out is a burst of cold water, and he wakes up.

Breaching his record of an eight-minute shower with an eleven-minute one, Stiles finally makes it out, scrubbed and rosy. He towels the water from his skin and hair, wipes the mirror of condensation to take a look at his face, then secures another towel, Winnie the Pooh themed, around his waist and exits the bathroom. By his internal clock he's got another half and hour before he needs to depart. Enough time for breakfast: a meal that varies dependent on the combination of Stiles's and his dad's motivation to get Stiles out of bed.

Stiles heads downstairs, still toweled because his planned attire is in the dryer.

"Mornin' dad!" He greets but doesn't receive an answer. Glancing at the wall clock that looks like a fish, he pads into the kitchen, smelling the signs of cooking. "Dad?"

"Try again."

"Duh-Derek!" Stiles sputters, instinctively grabbing his towel and hiding partly behind the doorframe between the kitchen and the dining room. "What- you- dad?"

Derek, seated more comfortably than he should be at Stiles's dinner table with a plate of jammed toast and eggs, smiles and sips some of Stiles's orange juice from one of Stiles's glasses. "He's all ready gone. I let myself in."

"Did you use my toaster?" Stiles's main concern, eyeing Derek's breakfast with offense.

Derek stares back at him and calmly sets the glass down, "no, this bread toasted itself."

"And you're in my house." Stiles observes.

"I am."

"In my dining room."

"Mmhmm." Derek rolls his eyes and shovels in his eggs. Sunnyside up.

Stiles shakes out his surprise. "Uhm, okay. Ah, can I help you with anything?" Stiles tentatively crosses the threshold.

"Nope." Derek's says with his mouth full.

"So, what are you doing here? So early in the morning. Here to wish me luck on the big game tonight?" Stiles folds his arms, feeling a chill.

The state champion game is tonight. The game among games. The star on top of the Christmas tree. The crowning jewel that Beacon Hills has never had the pleasure of holding. Stiles is ready for this. This'll be his chance to cheer like he has never cheered before. Rooting on Scott now that he's damn near unbeatable with his werewolf superpowers. That is unless the other team has a werewolf. No, Stiles knows Scott could still kick their asses. Maybe Scott could get them high enough in points that Coach may have a moment and allow Stiles to play. Just a moment, a little one, that's all Stiles asks for. But just in case, Stiles has prepared several good cheers with lots of bouncing up and down and waving his arms around.

"What big game?" Derek glances over his last bite of strawberry jammed toast.

"Only the biggest game of the year! Lacrosse!" Stiles starts then stops, "y'know what, you probably don't care."

"You're right, I probably don't."

Stiles is the one to roll his eyes this time.

"I'm here because you talked to Scott." Derek accuses him like he's done something wrong.

"And? Scott and I talk, it's what buds do." Stiles shifts on his feet.

"About what?" He interrogates.

"About the weather. What do you think, Derek?" Stiles steps forward, annoyed by Derek's insistence to prosecute him every time he does anything, like breathing for instance.

"So, are you on his side now?" The Alpha crosses his arms over his chest, looking very suspicious.

Stiles growls a humanly growl, "I'm not on his side, I'm not on your side. I'm sideless. I'm Switzerland. Freakin' Antarctica. I'm in the grey-zone. How many more ways would you like me to say it? In Spanish?"

Derek stands up and collects his dishes, "I need to know I can trust you." He brushes past Stiles to go into the kitchen. Stiles stalks after him.

"We've had this discussion. I told you, you could."

Derek sets the dishes in the sink, "I can't trust you if you talk to Scott. He's working with Gerard. Who," Derek turns around, "wants me dead."

"Gerard's threatening him now. He said that he'll make Jackson kill everyone if Scott doesn't hand you over."

"Oh, and that's suppose to make me feel better?" Derek leans against the counter, arms folded into a wall across his chest once more.

"How about we try to work together and figure out how to stop them? Did you ever think of that?" Stiles copies Derek's body posture.

"No."

Stiles groans and throws his hands up in the air. "And _why not_!"

"Because I can't trust him."

"Oh my God," Stiles is beyond himself, "y'know, I'm going to get you a mirror so you can continue this conversation with yourself, because I'm done!"

Stiles spins around, ready to do an impressive stomping away until his Winnie the Pooh towel decides all this movement is too much and slips down his hips.

"Whoa!" Stiles catches the towel somewhere around his knees but doesn't fail to notice his full-on mooning Derek. For reasons unknown, Stiles peeks over his shoulder to look at him.

Derek snorts and covers his amused smile with a fist.

"I-I'm gonna ge-get dressed." Stiles skitters out of the kitchen; the towel doing the bare minimum of keeping certain things unexposed.

"By the way, nice towel!" Derek shouts after him, and Stiles answers by slamming the laundry room door.

* * *

Stiles's leg won't stop bouncing. Especially not after Coach's inspirational Independence Day speech was corrupted by Gerard being all creepy. _"Now, I'm your principal, but I'm also a fan. So, don't think I'll be content to watch you merely beat this team. Go out there and murder them!"_

If that won't strike you as morbid, then nothing will. But for Stiles this added up to be a lot more than he accounted for. Lacrosse is just suppose to be something that Stiles and Scott could fall onto when they needed a break from all the madness in their lives. Run out some steam. Knock out some frustration. Now, Gerard has infiltrated it. Even though, Gerard had gone over the edge when he involved their parents. Oh, it's game on.

"So, you've got a plan." Stiles doesn't want to ask when Scott drops down on the bench next to him, fixing his gloves and looking nervous.

"Yeah, sorta."

"And pray tell, what would it be? Since Coach's got you out of the game because Gerard's an ass with a capital A. hole."

"It's…a work in progress." Scott weakly says, joining Stiles in bouncing his legs. "Did Derek say anything about anything?"

"Oh, just the normal stuff. He doesn't trust you. Doesn't trust me. Doesn't trust the world. Hey! Did I tell you that his pack is leaving him?" Stiles looks a little shameful for forgetting.

"No, but I know. Isaac told me. They are going to leave tonight." Scott is crestfallen.

"Great." Stiles slumps. "I was hoping they'd have an epitome and do what Betas should do and help their Alpha. Guess not. No wonder Derek's been all irritating. Well, more so."

"Me too, but I don't know how to help him. Isaac was pretty convinced." Scott and Stiles watch the other team take out one of their teammates. The crowd "ooh's!" and the other team bolts off with the ball toward Danny. Danny's got the goal covered and blocks the ball. The crowd does a relieved cheer. Too bad it's only a warm up.

"At least you _can_ do something. I'm completely worthless."

"No you're not, Stiles." Scott is trying to look at Stiles but he's looking away.

"Dude, you know I get in the way. I can't do the things you can do. I don't have the superpowers. I can't save anybody… I can't be the hero, Scott. You have to." Stiles finally turns to him and looks tired.

"It's okay." Two simple words were supposed to fix anything. If anyone could do it, it would be Scott. But Stiles isn't fixed.

"We're losin', dude."

"What the hell are you talkin' about? The game hasn't even started! Now, put on your helmet and get out there, you're in for Greenberg." Coach is suddenly behind them, making them jump.

"What? What happened to Greenberg?" Stiles looks around, trying to see if he was the one hit by the other team.

"What happened to Greenberg? He sucks," Coach glances at the other bench where Greenberg sits and then raises his hands to weigh the options, "you suck…" up, down, his hands go, "slightly less." Stiles weighs more.

"I'm playing?" He looks at Scott, "on the field?" He stares wide-eyed at Coach, "wif-with the team?" He gazes hopefully out at the field team. This could quite possibly be too good to be true. Scott is all smiles.

"Yes, unless you'd rather… play with yourself." Coach mocks.

"I already did that today, twice." Stiles glances at Scott, who smirks and as the graces to look away.

"Get the hell out there!" Coach shouts, rousing Stiles off the bench with an exclamation of surprise. He scrambles out onto the field where everyone is lining up in their positions.

"Oh dear God." He stuffs his head into helmet and knocks it for good measure. If he wasn't a ball of nervous energy before, he is now. That little moment he wished for just totally turned into a complete game. It is his first game! And it just happens to be the state championship.

"Oh shit."

* * *

Stiles almost has ball. It is about three feet away from him. His stick is moving the right way toward it, so that is a good thing. He has a thick layer of sweat covering him, pooling in uncomfortable places but he doesn't mind. It just reminds him he was on the field. Running for his life. They are down and in the third quarter. He has done a lot of running toward their goal where Danny is getting his work cut out for him. Jackson, the "star" player isn't living up to shining like one. He has had flickers of getting into the game, looking like the old Jackson, before flinting back to moving in a trance.

Stiles thinks this is his chance to turn the tides as he goes for the ball, stick cutting through the grass. He's got this. Practicing against a werewolf-empowered being must have done something to his skill level, even margining. But maybe Stiles isn't so lucky. He figures this when he is on his back, winded and dazed from being rammed into by a freight train wearing the colours of the other team. He can hear part of the crowd die a horrible death while the other part jubilates.

But he gets up because as a wise Confucius once said, _"Our greatest glory is not in never falling but in rising every time we fall."_

And the show goes on as he limps by the benches seeing Scott talking to Isaac. Isaac! He didn't leave. Stiles swells in hope. Okay, not what he is expecting with the sight of Isaac, but he won't deny he is a little happy. One more person to have on their side. He can see them plotting. But it doesn't last long when right in front of him one of his teammates is struck down by the other team. The other guy smirks at Stiles and points at him. Stiles sneers back and puts his head back into the game.

Isaac comes trotting out to replace the fallen warrior, only to start taking out more of their team. The hell? Stiles wildly looks at Scott for answers, but Scott is nodding. And then Stiles is rammed into again by the same guy that pointed at him, #12. He growls and struggles to his feet. No way is he done. He teeters a bit to the left when he jogs toward the players with the ball, but he shakes the double vision out.

The crowd does a funny cheer, encouraging Stiles to look away from the ball to see Scott cantering out into the field after Isaac is the last to be carted away. Oooh, so that's what they were up to. Smart move. Stiles nods at Scott and tightens his grip on his stick.

The game doesn't change at all with the arrival of Scott, however. Scott is distracted, he mutters "Gerard" to Stiles when they cross paths. It is five minutes left of fourth quarter and they are down by two, 7 – 9. The team is looking to Scott for guidance, having finally acknowledged Jackson is a complete space-case. But then Scott is gone, the team is being slaughtered down by their goal, and Stiles is standing at the other end watching things all go it hell. He sees Scott doing the shuffle toward the locker rooms, the rhinos of the other team placing their horns into their remaining decent players, and the ball rolling into the grass by Stiles's feet amongst the fray. He looks down in bewilderment, instinctively scooping it up. Almost as if they could smell it, the other players turn at once and come charging down the field. He does a strangled battle cry, and stumbles over his feet toward the goal. He's got this. But once he gets there he freezes. Does he have this?

The Beacon Hills crowd is a little confused as to where the ball is; Stiles can hear Coach bellowing. He hears his dad, Melissa, even… no, it couldn't be, Lydia? He glances to see her thrusting a fist into the air and screaming, "shoot it!" A little balloon blows up in his chest. Lydia is looking at him. Right at him. Cheering for him! But then something makes him look to the ground crowd. He doesn't know why, but he's got his eyes searching the group by the light post. Then he sees him. Derek. Smiling. Kind of. Their eyes connect for a moment that spans, in real time, for maybe two seconds, but for Stiles it feels like forever. Derek nods, and Stiles is plunging the ball into the net. The audience is on their feet and the place becomes deafening.

"I scored a goal… I scored a goal! I SCORED A GOAL!" Stiles is mauled by part his team, and it never felt so good it get mauled. They jump up and down and the energy changes. They found their new star.

* * *

One and two. Stiles is on a roll; twisting and twirling like a ballerina on the field, the ball in his net. Dude, he's fucking _got_ this. The Beacon Hills crowd is off on cloud nine when its two minutes to the end, and they are tied, 9 –9. Stiles parts the field like the Red Sea and delivers the winning point. He roars in victory, and if he thought he was mauled before, this is a first-degree assault on his body. But he loves every minute of it. He scours the crowd to see his dad and Melissa spazzing and hugging, and Lydia beside them simply glowing. The balloon in his chest is ready to pop. She isn't looking at Jackson prowling the field like a big lizard; instead she is looking at _him._ After all this time, after all the things he has done to get her attention, it is _this_ that is his saving Grace. Somehow, he should have thought of that. She started dating Jackson because he was the captain of the lacrosse team; Stiles joined the lacrosse team because Lydia was the number one fan. He supposes, after Danny lunges on him in a congratulatory hug, he did hope when he thought he had been turned that she would start to notice him. But no, he did this as a human. As Stiles. He doesn't even think of Derek until the stadium lights dim, and the field goes dark. Someone screams and everything falls into chaos.

The team around him starts to heave and shout incoherent things. Someone is hurt. That's all Stiles hears. He can taste the panic like its tangible. Oh God, he completely forgot. Gerard.

"Derek!" Stiles screams, "Derek!" His chest seizes in fear. Oh God, where is Jackson? He could have sworn he saw Jackson slip into the celebrating team. Is he somewhere close? Stiles futility snaps his head around to see but everything is dark and loud. It's like he is in a beehive.

"Scott!" Stiles hollers, "Scott, where are you!" He tries to squeeze through his teammates but some of them are frozen like a solid wall; from fear or shock, Stiles doesn't know, but he needs to get off the field. The real game has just begun, and he is right in the middle of it. He doesn't want to be in the middle, he wants to be on the bleachers, or at home on his computer.

"Shit, shit," he can't get out, he can't see, but he can feel when someone grabs the back of his shirt and yanks. "Scott, Derek?" He shouts but the attacker is too aggressive and is pulling too hard. Stiles tries to struggle but instead of everything going black, since it already is, he just loses consciousness.

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**Cliff-hanger?**

**Oh, and Stiles did have breakfast. Derek made him a bowl cereal. But by the time Stiles mustered up the courage to come out of the laundry room, it was soggy. X)**


	10. Tear Out All Your Tenderness

**Warnings: Gerard (because that guy should just come with a warning label) and poor dialogue spelling. **

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Tear Out All Of Your Tenderness

Stiles doesn't remember when he finally returns to the land of the living, but it is somewhere around the time when the scary, big, unsmiling guy dumps him onto the pavement in some unknown location. He doesn't even get time to get a hold of his spinning head as the unpleasant fellow grabs him under the arms and hauls him up. Stiles more or less trips into a nice suburban house, which he will later notice, by a picture on the wall, is the Argent's house. There is no time to sound alarm because the grunting madman is shoving him down the steps of a basement. Stiles tumbles down, landing face first on the concrete and just lays there. Everything had happened so fast he needs a moment. Even if his cheek is in a puddle of a foreign substance. The gorilla-ape slams the door, incasing Stiles in darkness. But it feels like a familiar state of being after everything.

Deciding that he may catch a disease on this dirty floor, Stiles pushes himself up, wipes his cheek, and dusts off his uniform because he won't want it to get any stains. It doesn't even have a grass stain yet. Well, maybe on his back after being thrown on his ass countless times tonight. Then all of sudden he hears something. A muffled whimper, and he freezes up against the wall. Slowly and unsurely, he swipes his hand against the wall, searching for a light switch. Finally, his fingers find one, and the light unveils Boyd and Erica bound from the ceiling, duct taped, and bleeding.

"Oh shit."

He bolts over, "what the hell happened?" He reaches up to untie Erica. She whimpers and shakes her head, but he simply shushes her. He tries again and touches the wire only to be shocked.

"Ouch!" He jolts back, clutching his fingers.

"They were trying to warn you it's electrified." Gerard's unpleasant, grandfatherly voice comes from the stairs.

"What are you doing with them?" Stiles inquires when Gerard makes it down the steps, smiling and looking at ease with having three teenagers held hostage in his basement.

"At the moment just keeping them comfortable." He sighs and leans against the wall. "There's no point torturing them, they won't give Derek up. The instinct to protect their Alpha is too strong."

Stiles pauses and swallows the panic clumping in his throat. "Okay, so what are you doing with me?"

"Oh, I got to thinking that maybe I was looking in the wrong places for Derek. Scott… his pack. But we both know Derek doesn't care about any of them. No, Derek doesn't feel much anymore, does he? Not after what my daughter did to his family. At the time I would have disagreed with her methods but now, I wish she would have made sure the whole pack had been locked in that basement. Burning to death in those fires. Purifying the earth of such _filth_. Oh, how I would have loved to have heard those screams."

Erica and Boyd whine behind Stiles.

"And then maybe she could still be alive."

"Is that what this is all about? Getting revenge for that crazy bitch, Kate?" Stiles takes a brave step forward. The wolves behind him bemoan his decision.

"Oh, Mr. Stilinski there is more to this, so much more. And you've been lucky enough to be award with a special part in all of it."

"Oh, how kind of you. I knew there was a heart of gold underneath all that evil." Stiles scoffs.

Gerard chuckles, "you have quite the sense of humor, Mr. Stilinski. I can only imagine how much you must irritate others with it."

"They've grown use to it." Stiles shrugs.

"Well, fortunately they won't have to put up with it much longer." Gerard starts to approach Stiles. "You're going to be the sacrificial lamb slaughtered at the alter. Whose blood will be spilt so that great things can come. Whose blood will call those from the shadows to meet the sharp glare of my blade. To perish at the swing of my sword, turning their sins to ash to be blown away in the wind, as if they never existed. Just as they should had have never existed in the first place."

Stiles has done his best to be unflinching as Gerard weighs like a force of nature over his very soul, but now Stiles is fighting the urge to cower in the corner.

"H-how poetic." He stutters in defiance.

"How poetic indeed, when Derek finds his _mate_ bloodied and beaten to a pulp. How does that sound, now?" Gerard is almost pressed up against him.

"Y'know, I've always preferred classic literature, myself."

Gerard's cheek twitches from clenching his teeth. Stiles can feel his patience wearing if it isn't already worn. Okay, so Gerard isn't an appreciator of some dry humor, that's all right, most of Stiles's class isn't either. Most of the time neither is his dad. But Stiles knows how to handle those kinds of people.

"Y'know what, what are you, ninety? Look I can probably kick your ass up and down this room-" Combat them with extreme mocking.

And that is when Stiles experiences his first punch of the night.

* * *

Gerard may be a little trigger-happy when Stiles has gone from seeing stars to seeing flashes of colour every time Gerard lands another blow on his head. He's been punched before. But never been beaten. He didn't know how quickly it goes from hurting to being agony. He is pretty sure his nose is bleeding, or he has bitten his cheek because he tastes iron. Maybe both.

He figures Gerard gets tired of having to bend over to pound Stiles's head into the concrete because now he's stomping his heel into Stiles's stomach.

"Sto-ahp" Stiles grunts when contact is made, making him curl up like a caterpillar. Gerard just switches to swinging his leg at his back and arms.

"Pl-ee-ease." Stiles groans when something cracks in his chest. Gerard stops for a moment, allowing Stiles's body to register all the pain at once. He convulses and moans. All his pain receptors are beyond stimulated and reacting like he is getting hit all over again. He rolls back and forth on his side, trying to get his touch sensors to feel something else. He can hear Erica and Boyd producing muffled shouts at him, and Gerard breathing heavily over him.

"Don't worry." Gerard says but doesn't mean it. There is no way he could. "Someone will be down to do a better job. I'm afraid I am a little rusty." He actually _chuckles_.

"Go-ood, cuz tha-at waz path'atic." Stiles's nose must be broken. If not, it definitely is when Gerard leaves him with a boot to the face that effectively knocks him out.

* * *

Stiles doesn't like the fact that every time he wakes up he finds himself in a little more danger. Such as he is sitting in a chair, hands tied behind his back and legs to the chair's, facing the big oaf from before. They are in a different room since Erica and Boyd are nowhere to be found. It looks like the garage. Stiles spots the gun storage Scott told him about, and a tool bench probably holding all sorts of instruments of torture.

"Finally awake?" The ogre pats Stiles's face, but it feels like he slapped him when pain flares up in his cheek.

"Ss-till ss-tup'd lookin'?"

Stiles gets decked for that. His head snaps to the side and blood pools in his gums. He spits it out. "'ou like h'ittin' kids? Makes's ya feel bet'er 'bout yer self?"

"You talk a lot for someone getting the shit knocked out of him." The Ogre, Stiles concludes that really is the best way to describe him, grabs his aching chin. "Y'know, life would've been easier for you if you'd just stayed away from that monster."

"Brea'f mint, se'ris'ly." Another jab, this time in the stomach. Stiles can't bend into the pain so it radiates untamed. "I-I'm," Stiles coughs and regrets it, "I'm surp-prised they'd let 'ou 'do a bet'er job.' 'Ou h'it like a g'rl, too."

"I've been with the Argents for my whole life. I volunteered to have a swing at the _mate_ of the monster that killed Miss Kate. After what happened to Mrs. Argent, what it did to Miss Allison... This is my pleasure."

"Eww." Stiles spits out another glob of saliva and blood. He snorts and feels the clot of blood in his nose release. He can breathe better but the blood waterfalls down his chin and neck. He coughs when some of it hits his throat. "Did 'ou forget the pa'art where Kate burn'd Derek's entire fam'mily to dea'f?"

"They deserved it. They were monsters. They killed people. Good people."

"And so f'at makes 'ou a good pers'n, knockin' out some kid's tee'f?" Stiles starts into the worst coughing fit he has ever had. The coughs hammer out all the bruises in his chest, leaving him panting once he stops.

"I suppose _you_ forgot that Derek _helped_ Kate burn down his family?"

"W'at?" Stiles is startled, not knowing if the Ogre is just playing with him. But on his dopey face he sees nothing but smug satisfaction that comes from telling a dirty secret.

"Oh, he didn't tell you? I suppose he won't. Why would he? The biggest black stain on his conscience. Him and Kate used to be a thing. Pretty serious, from what I heard. He fell pretty hard for her."

Stiles feels a spike of something shoot through him that hurts more than anything else he has felt tonight. He doesn't know what it is and it is gone quickly. However, it leaves behind a terrible ache.

"So hard that he was willing to do anything for her. Even gave her the keys to his house. For a werewolf, he must have really trusted her. Probably thought she was the one, his soul_mate_." The Ogre is up to something, Stiles knows it. He wouldn't need to mention all of this. He should be making Stiles a nice little bloodied pulp on the floor.

"Yep, Derek wanted to blame us for burning down his house, but it was really him. He brought his family to the slaughtering house and made them experience the worst kind of death. Burning alive, can you imagine? It's no wonder he just couldn't live up to that. Just think," the Ogre gets up and goes over to the tool bench to fiddle with a piece of equipment. "Your skin burning, roasting all your tissue and muscles? The fire burning down to your bones, melting them?" Something hisses when he turns a valve.

"The smoke being ventilated so there isn't enough to suffocate you, like the Burning Man. Ingenuous. Humans are incredible. The things they can come up with to harm each other. To make them experience the highest limits of their tolerance. To push them past it and break them. Ruin them. Leave nothing left but a pile of ash." He turns around with a tool that looks like a modified thermal lance, a burning bar, an evil curling iron. It is glowing dimly, most likely not quite warmed up yet.

Stiles's eyes widen, "no, 'ou've gotta be kiddin'." He pulls at his bindings, "dude, are 'ou freakin' serious?"

"Oh, don't worry, it's not like an industrial thermal lance, that would be way too hot. It's designed for burning softer substances. Personally, I thought a knife would have done the job, but Mr. Gerard insisted I use this. Thought that Derek would appreciate the sight of his _mate_ covered in burns." The Ogre hovers the bar at Stiles's knee.

"Tell me if it is too hot." He presses it to his leg, and Stiles screams.

* * *

Stiles falls out of the chair when the Ogre cuts him free. He is numb. He doesn't, can't move. His body can't believe what has happened to it. It's in shock, trying to figure out how to handle all the damage. Stiles's conscious is locked down in his mind so the other, smarter, parts of his brain can come up with a strategy as to how to deal with this.

Like watching from a window, Stiles sees the Ogre pick him up like a doll and carry him out the garage. It's brighter outside than Stiles's remembers. Is it morning? The sun isn't up yet, but its time is due. The Ogre brings him to the familiar black sedan and dumps him in the trunk. Time is lost somewhere in the Twilight Zone. It walks and runs and drags Stiles along with it. Then, almost suddenly, the sedan halts. The engine humming under Stiles, but he can hear the Ogre, the Monster, get out and come around to the trunk.

He slowly gazes at the creature, not a man, when the trunk door opens and the rays of the morning rush in to see what kind of night Stiles's has had.

"Home again, home again, kid." The Ogre grabs him and drops him on the curb of Stiles's neighborhood. He doesn't know where his house is. He just falls back into the dewy grass, and the monster-filled sedan speeds away unnoticed.

* * *

**Why did I do this?**

**The thermal lance, I swear, that wasn't planned, it just happened. And I know, that equipment is used for major melding, so that's why I stated ****_modified._**** I just need something portable and burning. Curling iron did cross my mind that seemed a little, mood-killing, and so it served its purpose as description material.**

**Spellcheck hated me this chapter.**


	11. The Fabric Of Your Flesh

**Warning: Lots of complicated feels.**

* * *

The Fabric Of Your Flesh

When Stiles wakes again, he is laying elevated, his head to the side. As he opens his eyelids he can feel one moving slower than the other. But what they both see is a hand coming at his arm with a something long and metal. He shouts a strangled cry and tries to flinch away. Every part of him protests, including the person with the hand and the metal.

"Stiles, Stiles, it's alright. It's a morphine drip, it'll help with the pain." Melissa has her needleless hand on his hand, rubbing it comforting. "It's alright, sweetheart, you're safe now. Relax."

Stiles does relax, only twitching when she inserts the needle. The relief is almost instant. He sighs and sinks into the mattress.

"I s'pose I don't need to as'sk where I am if 'ou are stickin' needles into my arm." Stiles croaks.

Melissa smiles and pets his hand gently. "It's going to be alright now, Stiles. Everything will be okay. You're safe. No one is going to hurt you. Not if I have anything to say about it!" She chuckles lightly, "Oh, sweetheart. Why would anyone do this? To you, to anyone? Hun, please, you need to tell me who did this to you."

Stiles exhales again, his eyes drooping, "Ogre…"

"An ogre?" Melissa stops her caressing for a moment of confusion. "Does this have something to do with Scott?"

Stiles manages to sidestep his drowsiness to address that question. "Whut?"

"Well, something related to what Scott is. I'm… okay? With it, really. I just need to get use to the idea that my son is a… werewolf."

Stiles looks at her intently, and then glances away. His eyes sag again. "S'okay…" He mumbles. "My dad?"

"Stiles, I need to know if it does have something do with that because your father thinks it was the team you played on Friday, especially after want happened to Jackson." Melissa insists even though as a nurse she knows the morphine is making Stiles way too comfortable with the idea of sleeping.

"Whut 'appened to Jackssson?" Stiles slurs but is curious, looking back at Melissa.

"He died. Well officially."

"Whut?" Stiles tries to rouse himself but the medicine is winning.

"We'll talk about this later, I guess. You had better just get some rest."

Stiles is convinced and slips back behind his eyelids.

* * *

There are several flashes of time periods in which Stiles experiences but fails to interact with or clearly remember. One is Scott consuming his view, chattering and watering his puppy brown eyes at the sight of Stiles. Another is his dad. He doesn't say anything. He just sits in a chair next to Stiles's bed, holding his hand and gazing at him. Another, and Stiles is 50/50 about this one, is Lydia clucking at him and even looking distressed. That could be a dream, but she is telling him about Jackson so maybe not. Stiles's dreams about her are never that cruel. There are plenty more with Scott, even one where, again this is yet to be determined, but Allison. She approaches him like a wild animal with Scott hovering over Stiles on the other side of his bed. She says something, frowns, and knits her brows together like she is upset. They leave the room, and Stiles falls back to sleep.

He keeps dreaming of laying in the morning grass on the curb where the Ogre left him. He isn't sure where his mind inserts its own fantasies and where reality takes place, but he recalls watching the morning sun swallow up the stars. His body does not feel anything, not even the dampness of the dew on his back; in his dreams he is just a void taking up space in the sleepy neighborhood. But then the sky does a funny somersault and fireworks go off, exploding brightly in his eyes. There is a voice, it's speaking a jumbled language in his ear and makes his head hurt. He tells it different things each dream, "I don't want tea," "That colour doesn't look good on you," "You need a bigger shirt," "There's an elephant over there, you should inform the zoo," and more strange commentary. The voice grunts and jumbles some more words in his ear. But he knows in one dream, he remembers it well; he grabs at the voice and takes a hold of a shirt. The fabric is worn and damp. Under the shirt is a solid mass, tense and flexing. He remembers making a comment about it. It only makes him aware of the solid mass coiling around him, squeezing him. This does not make him panic or struggle. Like a blanket, like the one he used when he was young, the solid mass envelopes Stiles, something soft presses against his forehead, and finally he is given peace.

* * *

Finally Stiles wakes up and stays that way long enough for Melissa to tell him he's been battling his eyelids for two days. The burns, consisting mainly on his legs, arms, and shoulders are mostly second-degree burns. There is one on his knee that they doctors are a little concerned about. The other bruising on Stiles's face and abdomen will heal over time, but there was nothing serious. His nose was reset so it'll just look like a plum with a butterfly bandage for a while. No concussion, which surprised Stiles remembering how many times Gerard had hit him. Maybe he _was_ a little rusty. The crack that he remembers hearing, not necessarily feeling, yielded no damage, so that is a relief.

All in all, he is allowed to leave with a bag full of dry dressings, medical tape, a bottle of Ibuprofen, and antibiotic cream. His dad is at his side at all times, nodding and listening quietly to what Melissa and the doctor tell him for treatment: change the dressings everyday, apply the ointment, keep irritation to the minimal, bathe in cool water, no showers, take the Ibuprofen to help with the pain and swelling. Sounds manageable, Stiles thinks, feeling a little more in control of himself. They give him some crutches to help him walk because of the particular burn above his right knee. He asks for a cane instead but they laugh. Stiles thought it was a reasonable request.

The ride home is quiet. Stiles knows his dad is brimming over to say something, to interrogate him about what happened, but Stiles is tired and just wants to sleep in his own bed. He is tired of off-white walls, beeping machines, the burn of the IV, and being bothered every hour by a nurse.

Arriving home, Sheriff Stilinski helps his son out of the car but after that Stiles's insists he can do it himself. His father shadows behind him as he hobbles with the crutches into the house. The real challenge is the stairs, but the Sheriff decides he has waited long enough and steers Stiles's into the living room, lowering him onto the couch.

"Who did this?" The man stands over his son. "Who the _hell_ did this to my son?"

"Dad…" Stiles sighs and leans back, feeling the dull throb returning as the hospital medicine washes out.

"No, you tell me, Stiles. Was it someone from the other team? Because you heard what happened to Jackson, right?"

"Actually, not really. I think people told me, but I don't remember."

The Sheriff deflates a little, just a little, "he's dead, Stiles. He was stabbed on the field, right when you were taken. I don't know when the funeral is going to happen because he's body is undergoing an autopsy. But, you tell me, Stiles, did those little bastards on the other team do this to you? Was it that number 12 that kept hittin' you? I need a description of the bastard that did this, or was it more than one person? I will find them and burying them in the ground, you hear me? Don't think that you need to keep quiet about them in case they'd come back. I'm willing to set a chair in front of the door and wait for them with my shotgun. No one is going to get away with hurting my son like this."

"Dad… I can't even remember what they looked like, it's all kinda fuzzy…" Stiles feels swollen from not just his injuries, but his dad's protectiveness and foolishness. He can't get his father anymore involved in this supernatural crap than he already as.

"Don't give me that, Stiles. They, they fucking _tortured_ you, look what they did!"

"I know what they did! I was there, dad!" Stiles shouts in a burst of anger but it disappears fast at the sight of his father's startled expression. "I'm sorry, I'm just tired… I didn't mean-"

"No, no, I'm sorry. This isn't the time for this." The Sheriff puts one hand on his hip and the other in his hair, combing it back, "it's just…" He pierces his lips and furrows his brows.

"I'm okay, dad, you found me."

"No, I didn't find you, it was the Hibbens, they found you. I should have been the one. I was looking everywhere for you, and I still couldn't-"

"Dad…!" Stiles starts to cry even though his eyes are black and puffy and the salty water burns. His father's eyes do the same and carefully they figure out a way to hug.

* * *

After three days of missed school, Stiles is feeling a little bit more like himself: watching trash T.V., playing video games on his computer, napping at irregular hours, and eating microwave-d dinners. Yup, things were returning back to normal. Except for the awful nightmares he'd rather not talk about.

His dad is at work, but he'll be home for lunch. That's all right, Stiles on a mission to level up his Worgen. He has been living in his room for these three days, mainly on his bed. With loose shorts and a muscle shirt, he is a little chilled but for his burns it's a reasonable temperature. They are blistering and ugly. His bruises are mostly still black and blue. The swelling in his face as gone down a little, but he still looks like he was attacked by a hive of bees. He also looks like he is dead because of the circles darkening his eyes. Like dark sockets of a skull. Stiles wishes it was closer to Halloween, he'd have the best costume. A mummy, that's what he'd be. His arms are already more bandages than skin.

But he can't shake this nagging feeling. It makes his stomach churn and teeth set on edge. No matter how creatures he kills the feeling just won't be replaced. He doesn't like it. It's like something has been forgotten. Misplaced. Waiting to be addressed. And if it's let to sit too long it could be ruined. Maybe not forever, but it would never be the same. But what is it?

Stiles pauses the game and studies his funny looking face in the reflection of the computer screen. He can feel The Question reappearing in the back of his head, waiting to be asked.

He sighs, "how is this my life?" There it is.

"The dryer!" There's the answer, not to The Question, but to the nagging. He forgot to turn it on.

Carefully, he places his laptop on the end table and rises like a swell in the ocean off his bed. Moving, that's the hard part. Especially with his leg. The right one with the burn on his thigh. Dear God, it freaking _hurts_. With intentions to swear off his crutches, Stiles is trying to operate on his own, but his accused leg won't cooperate.

Contemplating his game plan for getting off the bed, Stiles hears something behind him. If it is something demanding a quick reaction, Stiles is dead because slow is his only speed right now. And he has ADHD. You can imagine.

He finally turns enough to see what he heard.

"Derek." His breathes.

The Alpha is bending through his window, not frowning, but not looking happy. He nods at Stiles and just stands there. Unsure like the first time he creeped into Stiles's room and was caught.

"Ah… hi." Stiles settles back into his mattress, scooting so he can look at Derek more comfortably. Flinching when his torso twinges.

"Hello." Derek greets in a mumble and shuffles on his feet. Hands in his jeans and looking like he wants to be sucked in by his green long sleeve. This is not a common sight to see. He looks like the Awkward Turtle trying to recede into his shell.

"Why don't you sit down? I think we need to talk." Stiles says like he did the first night they were bonded and pats his bed.

"Yeah, I think we do." Unlike that night, Derek actually does come over and sits down at the edge of Stiles's bed. Plotted with his back to Stiles.

They sit quietly for a few minutes, Stiles picking at his bandages, and Derek rubbing his hands together.

"Y'know," Stiles is the first to talk, even though that is not completely surprising, "I should be telling you to get the hell out of my room and never show your face again."

"So why don't you?" Derek quietly suspects this.

"I don't know. I know I should. I want to. But, I don't." He clasps his hands together. "Maybe you've finally grown on me. Can you believe it, I actually like you?" Stiles means this to be funny and maybe means something more. He isn't quite sure himself.

"No you don't." Derek glances over his shoulder at him.

"Oh, so you're an expert on my feelings now?" Stiles narrows his eyes.

"No, but I know how the bond works. It won't allow you to feel like a normal person about the one you are bonded too. You should be angry with me. Furious." Derek is weirdly self-inflicting. "This wouldn't, shouldn't have happened." His eyes flicker over Stiles and then he turns away.

"Hey now," Stiles tries to inch closer to Derek but it is painful. He forces himself to anyway. "No one is pointing a gun to my head about this. I'm not mad at you. You didn't tell those sick bastards to do this to me. Did you?"

"Course not, Stiles." Derek growls but refuses to look at him, "but I might as well have." Those brooding shoulders are so tense Stiles thinks they are going to snap.

"So, is that why you are here? Because you feel guilty? Or were you forced by the bond to come?" Stiles is right behind Derek, gritting his teeth because he is leaning on his bad leg but that nag is back.

"What is that suppose to mean?" Derek actually turns around, but he looks livid. "Would you stop it!" He gestures at Stiles's kneeling position and pushes him onto his butt. The mattress makes them bounce.

"Isn't it the same? Me not being mad, you bothering to come over?" Stiles challenges, unfazed by Derek for once. "It's _just _because of the bond."

They both know there is a different meaning behind that statement but whether or not it will be addressed is another thing entirely.

Derek stares intently at him, studying and taking in the ugly bruises on Stiles's face. It's what Derek does when he is trying to figure someone out when his amazing people skills fail to get him the answers he seeks. He uses his werewolf superpowers to inspect all the little things you quietly give away with your face, your posture, your temperature, your heart. Stiles doesn't try to feel self-conscious about it because he wants Derek to figure it out. They are just too stubborn to really say it. Whatever it is they are trying not to say.

"Have you changed your bandages today?" Derek questions. Maybe off topic, maybe not. Derek's back to being Derek Maybe Hale.

"No, I was going to do it after lunch."

"You should do it right now."

Stiles does his own studying, "is that code for something?"

Derek sighs and gets up, already zoned in on the medical kit on Stiles's dresser. "I'll help you." Not a question, a statement.

He grabs the needed supplies and returns to his place on the bed. Stiles briefly wonders how savvy Derek is at treating burns but then he feels like smacking himself for being such an idiot. Duh.

"You're being quite nice to me, should I be worried?" Stiles playfully raises an eyebrow. "Are you trying to take advantage of me in my weaken state?"

Derek fails to cover up a snort and grabs at Stiles's legs to stretch them out across the bed. "I'm going to do something that is going to help, but you have to let me."

"Is it going to be weird?" Stiles leans away.

"Yes."

"Go for it."

Derek rubs his hand on Stiles's shin. It isn't burned but there is a bruise, a big yellow and blue one. Derek's hand stops on it, gently squeezing the skin. Not enough to hurt but a dull ache is asking for reasons behind the pressure. Then the werewolf's expression gets intense, and Stiles gasps. The bruise doesn't hurt but tingles uncomfortably. He grabs Derek's arm.

"Let me do this." He says, glancing at Stiles. His eyes are faintly red.

Stiles nods but doesn't let go of Derek's arm until the sensation ebbs. When Derek removes his hand, the wound is barely there. Just a slightly coloured patch of skin.

"Holy Hale," Stiles touches it. There is no pain. "What did you do? Are you a wizard?"

"No, we have the ability to heal others. Alphas have the ability to physically heal, but Betas can only take away the pain." Derek slides his hand up to another bruise and works his magic.

"Take off your shirt." Stiles does without question.

He works on the bruises and cuts, touching and focusing until the aching and wounds are flushed away. It _is_ like magic. He glides his hands over Stiles's abdomen, the worse of the blacks and blues. Stiles leans on his pillows while Derek touches him more than he ever thought the guy would. He was just getting use to Derek talking to him with more than two sentences per insult.

Stiles tries to think about something else then how intimate it is. It's all sorts of weird, but Stiles doesn't mind it. Plus it feels wonderful. He can breathe without feeling like his torso is conspiring against him. It had felt like he had done an intense abs workout. But Derek is like a hot shower taking out all the knots and pains.

"This is amazing. How come you never mentioned this to Scott?" Stiles sighs when Derek works out a particularly painful spot.

"It's not that important of a skill."

"I would beg to differ."

Derek reaches up to Stiles's face and cups his cheeks. "Would you get on your knees to do it?"

A hot spike of something Stiles rather not admit to goes right through him. He can feel his cheeks redden under Derek's palms, and his entire body warm up.

Derek chuckles, "you need to calm down, Stiles." The pads of his fingers poke at his face injuries.

"Don't tell me to calm down. I'm being stimulated from something other than pain. I have been in a constant state of agony for nearly a week. Do you know how that feels?" Stiles gripes

"Yes, I do." Derek looks at his face but not in his eyes.

"Wait, does that mean you felt it?" Stiles tries catches Derek's gaze.

"Yes." His lips pierce, and he lets go of Stiles's face for his hands to find the medicine and bandages. "I'm going to do the burns now."

"So you felt it? When Gerard was – and when that Ogre-?" Stiles presses.

"_Yes_." Derek starts peeling off the bandages on Stiles's arms.

"How much? How much did you feel? Like a lot or uh, like a on scale of one to ten, one: none and ten: a lot, where would you rate it?"

"Eight. It's probably part of the reason they didn't let up." Derek frowns.

"So how come you didn't-?" Stiles bites off the rest. He doesn't know why, but he can't ask it.

But that's okay because Derek doesn't need him to, "why I didn't find you? Save you?"

"You make me sound like a damsel in distress."

"You are. But I couldn't, not when you were there."

"You knew were I was?" Stiles smacks Derek's hands away.

"Yes."

"Then- then why didn't you come storming into the castle?"

"Because one man can't." Derek admits, "I wouldn't have been able to save you."

Stiles mouths incoherent words before getting out, "so you just stood outside, allowing them to beat me and burn me with a fucking curling iron!"

"What, do you think that I enjoyed it? Do you think I got pleasure out feeling what that bastard was doing to you? Damn it, I wanted to do something, but I couldn't. I couldn't do anything!" Derek looks desperate, and Stiles's likes it. Maybe his anger was just delayed.

"That's bullshit, Derek! Nothing has ever stopped you. You didn't even _try _to save me! You didn't even have the nerve to see me when I was in the hospital! I know you don't give a rat's ass about anyone, but I had hoped you'd at least feel _something_ since you're the reason this happened to me!" Stiles shouts.

"I couldn't _help_ you, Stiles! They had protection over the house, I couldn't get in. There were hunters everywhere. Even if there were a way I would've gotten you killed! Probably both of us."

"Why didn't you call the police then?" Stiles is the one sounding desperate, trying to understand the complications of this conversation.

Derek is quiet for a moment, "what was I suppose to say?"

"How about, 'hey, Stiles is getting _tortured_, please send in the troopers!' God, Derek-!" Stiles buries his hands into his face.

They sit in a pregnant silence. Butter knife thick. Stiles isn't crying into his hands, but makes it easier to not look at Derek. There is a lot of confusion swirling around in Stiles, and he is trying to make sense of it.

"I'm sorry." Derek says so quietly that Stiles barely hears him. "This is all my fault."

"It is all your fault." Stiles mouths into his hands.

The mute returns but only for a short period.

"Maybe I will leave."

"No. Sit. Stay."

"Stiles," Derek sighs, sounding tired.

"Derek," Stiles pulls his face out of his hands. "I am angry at you. But not for being the reason that I was… hurt."

"This isn't good," the invisible tether, "I shouldn't have let this go so far."

"Did you have a choice?" Derek furrows his eyebrows at the question.

"What? No, but that doesn't matter-"

"Of course it does, you Sourwolf! You said yourself that you're more effected by the bond than I am." Stiles interrupts.

"That's why I should have given you an out! Then this wouldn't have happened. It couldn't have happened." Derek pounds his fist on his knee, blaming himself.

"Maybe I don't want an out." Stiles mumbles but for a werewolf it's loud and clear.

"Wha-what?" Derek for once stutters.

Stiles gingerly snatches the back of his neck, "maybe I don't want an out."

"That's- Why not?" He looks confused like this was never something Derek was expecting to hear. Ever.

"Why would I?" Stiles picks at a fiber on his bedspread.

"You- you were _tortured_ Stiles, why- why don't you-? And that girl-" Derek is running his claws through his hair, trying to find the answers that must have floated up into it from his brain. "Just a minute ago you were yelling at me."

"I know, I know. Just – I'm tired, I'm confused, I don't know what to do anymore, and you are such an easy target for my anger. It's like you've got a bull's-eye right on your forehead. I just wish you would've – and I know you didn't want me to be tortured. I know that. You could'nt've have known how completely psychotic Gerard is. Sure, maybe hiring a bodyguard for me would've been a good idea, still a good idea, but you weren't hoping for this to happen." Stiles reasons.

"No, I wasn't. I would never." Derek squints at Stiles like he is hard to look at.

"So then it's okay."

"It's not okay, Stiles. You weren't fine a minute ago."

"I thought about."

"Stiles," Derek groans, "what are you saying? You need to get some rest, and I need to leave."

"No," Stiles grabs Derek's hand. "I want to make this okay! Forget the nightmares, forget my wrath for you, and forget the burns and bruises. You don't need to feel guilty. I don't want you to feel guilty. About any of this." Not about him, not about his family. He doesn't want Derek to feel any more guilt. That's what it all really boils down to. Stiles wants to say this but that is the best he can do for now. "So, just pretty please stay with a cherry on top."

And maybe there is one more thing that boils down. He may be still churning with confusion, but one thing is crystal clear, and damn him for admitting it to himself, but he doesn't want Derek to leave. Even though it was because of Derek that Gerard took him into his clutches, Stiles dreads being without Derek now that he is here. He doesn't understand it but the nightmares, wrath, burns, and bruises don't plague him as harshly when Derek is in sight. So, why would he want him to leave?

"And just next time I'd appreciate an effort on saving my life." Stiles winks, breaking the tension and revealing in the nicest way possible the source of his anger.

"I swear there won't be a next time." Derek squeezes his hand.

Another chick flick moment enters the scene as they hold hands. Stiles can be a chick-flick kind of guy, but Derek. This is a first and probably a last, but he'll enjoy Derek when he's got him like this.

"So," Stiles shakes their hands, drawing attention to it but is distracting by talking, "you said you were going to do something about these really ugly looking burns that are more like blisters from a weird, contagious disease."

Derek squeezes his hand one more time before letting go. "I hope they aren't contagious." He claws off the bandages from Stiles's arms and frowns.

"Those fucking bastards." Derek glares at the damage. The Ogre had actually untied Stiles's arms and retied them in front of him so he could burn them easier. He had even burned Derek's initials on the inside of his left arm. Derek stares at it and tenses up again.

"You could leave it. It could be an eccentric devotion to our marriage." Stiles jokes. He feels better about it when he does. Life doesn't seem as serious when you laugh at it. Because sometimes you either laugh or you cry, and Stiles prefers to laugh. And after all the drama, he needs a good laugh.

"No, I've already marked you. I won't let anyone else." Derek flashes his eyes at Stiles then brings his mouth to Stiles's skin and licks.

"Whoa, what are you doing? What happened to the magic-touch healing?" Stiles doesn't pull away, yet he still feels strange about being licked again.

"Bruises are internal. This is external so it has to be treated differently." Duh, Stiles should have known that judging by Derek's face.

So, Stiles gets licked and occasionally sucked on like he did when Derek clawed his neck out. What a complete 180: fighting to licking. His arms, his collarbone, gets turn around for his shoulders, and then it gets weird when Derek shifts back so he can bend to get at the severe burn above Stiles's knee. He knows it hurts and spends his time pulling away the dressing and tape. Gently, he works, and Stiles barely feels the throb.

"I didn't know you were such a big softy." Stiles has the nerve to ruffle Derek's hair before he leans over to confront the monstrosity that is Stiles's thigh. "You should wear your heart on your sleeve more often. It's a good look for you. Wish you did earlier. Y'know, maybe then you would have tried li'l' harder to have rescued me."

Derek glares at him like a predator about to rip a piece of meat out of his leg. "I'm trying to apologize. So, don't push me. I can make this hurt."

"But you won't do that because it'd hurt you too."

"I have a high tolerance for pain."

"Okay, then you won't because you secretly like me."

Derek does his classic Derek Eye Roll and begins. This time it is a little different, and it has a lot of new and interesting thoughts coursing through Stiles's brain. This has been a very not normal afternoon, but seeing Derek where he is has got Stiles thinking all kinds of not normal thoughts. Part of him knows Derek knows, but Derek doesn't say anything so Stiles doesn't try to control it. He wants to push it, seeing how far he can push Derek. It becomes really easy when Derek finishes his magic licking treatment with the burn on Stiles's neck.

Stiles gasps and grabs Derek in surprise when contact is made. "Uh, whoa, what the hell?"

"It's because this is where I marked you. Suck it up." Derek roughly explains and continues even though Stiles is squirming under him. It tickles and burns at the same time. Conflicting Stiles with shoving Derek off of him or holding him in place.

"If-if you were a va-vampire, I'd be more con-concerned about that demand." Stiles stutters from the sensation and being embarrassed by how much it is effecting him.

Derek snorts into his neck and pulls away from straddling Stiles. Flashing his fangs at Stiles, he grins, "you should still be concerned even though I'm not."

"Ha-ha." Stiles pokes at the burn on his neck. It is flaming and tingling.

"Don't." Derek slaps his hand away.

"I thought you healed it?" Stiles accuses him.

Derek reaches back and handles the burn ointment. "I aided the healing process, I didn't cure them. You still have to treat them with the medicine."

"Does that mean more licking treatments are scheduled?"

Derek pauses from rubbing the cream on Stiles's arm. "Excuse me?"

"Uh, nothing." Stiles casually picks up whistling.

"You liked it." Derek smirks and continues applying the cream.

"Did not. It was weird and unnatural."

"You liked it. I know."

Stiles scoffs.

"We don't need to be bonded for me to know. It's pretty damn obvious."

"Y'know what? It's your fault."

"My fault?" Derek looks innocently at him, "how is it my fault?"

"Uh, because," Stiles has to figure out how he wants to word this.

"Because it _bothers _you." Derek crawls over him again and leans into his neck. "_This bothers_ you." He scrapes his teeth over the burn. The hot spike returns full force. Stiles clenches Derek's sleeves again.

"I swear to God," Stiles growls half-heartedly.

"Hey, Stiles, I'm home-" Sheriff Stilinski is bursting through Stiles's room like he owns the place. Well, he does, but this is still Stiles's room. It's been for sixteen years. That entitles him to some privacy. But it doesn't matter because the sheriff has caught his son in bed with a strange man.

* * *

**I'm terribly sorry if this last scene knocked you everywhere, it did me. These two are impossible sometimes. I tried my damnest to get the fight to flow but y'know, when have these two ever been anything but rough water? I hope the heavier amount of Sterek made up for it? **

**And I know, part of the problem was Stiles being an emotionally constipated teenage boy. Eventually, they'll both get around to really saying what the hell is going on with their feels. But for now, awkward and all-over-the-board fights, and quick makeup bickering.  
**

**Again, sorry for errors, please point them out, and they'll be fixed. This chapter was a beast.  
**

**And Stiles isn't going to magically get better, so don't worry. Derek is just a good distraction. We'll have to see what the Sheriff thinks about that. ;)  
**


	12. A Man Who's Pure Of Heart

**Go ahead, throw sticks and stones at me. This is a terribly slow update but life came crashing through my window, took me hostage, and is still keeping a good hold on me. So, I am afraid my updates are going to be like until the end. The end is soon, but now I can't remember nor find my outline on how I wanted to finish this, so I am going to quickly rework some things. Thank you for being amazingly patient and awesome in general. **

**Enjoy.  
**

* * *

A Man Who's Pure Of Heart

The Sheriff is pacing. Stiles and Derek are sitting on the living room couch with a respectable distance between them. Stiles has a shirt on and new, fresh, hastily-wrapped dressings on because his dad told him not to come down stairs until those things were in order. Derek is trying not to fidget or look suspicious even though it is plain to see he'd rather be jumping into a volcano instead of being caught in the Stilinski household. And the Sheriff is continuing to pace.

Stiles twirls his fingers around each other and flickers his eyes at Derek, thinking back to how this is all Derek's fault. What kind of werewolf is he if he can't even hear fathers lurking out their sons' bedroom doors? What good is super hearing when it's got Stiles's father flailing his arms every so often like he is thinking of all the things he'd like to say – yell. Derek made his excuse when they were scrambling after the Sheriff told them to be downstairs in five minutes that it was _Stiles's_ fault. It was _his_ fault for being hurt, and Derek, being the kind soul that he is, treated him, thus making his senses weaker.

_"I told you it's not an important skill. The healing ability weakens the senses because the Alpha is taking in the physical damage. There's repercussions. What good does it do when you make yourself weaker by helping others?"_ Then he had the nerve to add on saying that he could barely hear anything over the beating of Stiles's heart. That thoroughly ruffled Stiles's feathers. It wasn't pounding _that_ hard. Derek countered saying it was like a jackhammer on a sidewalk.

"Derek Hale, as in the guy that you accused of murdering, twice?" Is the first thing that comes out of the Sheriff's mouth. He is still in his uniform because he is back for his lunch break. They were going to have lunch together, the left over pork tenderloins, just the two of them. But now there are three, and one of them is a part-time suspect, Derek Freaking Hale. _And_ he was in the Sheriff's son's bed, with his son.

"Ah, yes?" Stiles answers even though he supposes this does look weird.

"And the night when I found you at that gay club and you said something like, 'I could be gay,' did you actually mean that you were?" The next thing to come out. To someone passing by, those two questions would seem oddly unrelated.

"Well, it's a little more complicated than that," Stiles shares a side glanced with Derek. "I'm more… Derek-sexual? At the moment."

His father stares at him; probably trying to figure out if he is being serious. Then he looks at Derek, "I have to know, why – how could you go out with someone that accused you of being a serial killer? Who tried getting you put into jail? Twice. Succeed once."

"Ah…" Derek hesitates. Is this the time first he has spoken to Sheriff Stilinski outside of an interrogation room, but it still feels like an interrogation.

Stiles butts in, "we met up one day and had a nice chat about it and realized what a horrible, terrible, stupid mistake we," Derek glances at him, "_I _had made. Derek, being the actual _saint_ that he is, forgave me."

"Uh huh," the Sheriff is unconvinced. He is knows how to read guilty people. And Stiles being guilty is a normal occurrence. But whether or not getting the truth out of him is an entirely different matter. "But you still tried to prove he _murdered_ people, including his own sister. That's not exactly something easy to forgive, even for 'saint'."

"Uh," Stiles uh's because indeed, "uh." "To tell ya the truth, I can't believe it either sometimes."

They both look to Derek for some answers. He was content letting Stiles try to explain because it was amusing but now the heat is on him. He takes a leaf out of Stiles's book, "it's complicated."

"It's because I'm attractive," Stiles whispers at his dad even though Derek can hear.

The Sheriff rebuffs Stiles humor, "so, when you were at the gay club, is that how you two met up?"

"N-" Derek is quick to reply, but Stiles is quicker, "yes!"

The Alpha looks a little miffed by this, but Stiles goes with it. "Yes, it's where we run into each other. Scott and I were there for Danny, but I ended up running into Derek, and we got to talkin'. Well, he shouted at me and I begged for forgiveness."

"I was with a friend, he made me go." Derek adds because he feels it is important, apparently.

"You looked like you were having a good time, though." Stiles digs at him.

"Okay…" The Sheriff sits in his lazy boy, fingers knitted together in a very business-like matter. "So, what about that girl? Lydia? The one that you've had a crush on since the fifth grade?"

"Third grade." Stiles corrects automatically. "Uh," shit.

Derek shifts so he can look at Stiles better. More accusatory. The Sheriff isn't blind to this and mimics Derek's posture.

"I don't like her anymore?"

"Bullshit," his father calls.

"Dad!" Stiles gasps.

"Stiles…" He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, posing for an in depth conversation, or lecture. "Have you two not talked about this?"

"Uh… it's never come up, but I think that's more of our… business, y'know, for a private time, without… you."

"Oh no, you had better figure this out because I don't want to you being half-assed about this. We Stilinski's aren't half-assed, gotta it?"

"So, full-assed, is what you are saying?"

"Yes-" Wait, in context to this conversation that seems mildly inappropriate for a father to recommend. Awkward.

"Don't worry; she's in love with someone else." Stiles flops his hands.

"That doesn't matter, you can't expect to be in a relationship with someone if they love you, but you're in love with someone else."

Stiles ignites and Derek shifts a little more away from him. Did his dad just use the L word? _That_ word. Derek and him had agreed, before trudging downstairs to meet their doom, it would just be easier to say that they were "dating" to make things a little less complicated, but to be in l-l-love each other? Stiles is ready to join Derek in the volcano.

"It's not – not l-like that." Stiles stutters, rubbing his face to try to cool the fire blazing there.

"Do we need to have the 'talk'? I know you got it in health class, but we can have it again. You – you are using pro-protection, right? I expect you to take responsibility, both of you. Especially you, Hale, since you are older. H-how old are you?" The Sheriff is equally embarrassed talking about Stiles's private life but as a parent he must feel obligated.

"Oh my God, dad!" Stiles flails. Derek's treatment has made him feel a 110% better to adapt more physical activity. "Seriously?"

"I gotta know you are going to be okay." That's a double-edged statement. They all know it.

"I will be." Stiles settles a little, and Derek shifts again.

"Derek, did you, do you know anything about what happen to him?" The Sheriff looks deadly serious.

"N-no, sir." Derek bows his head.

"Were you at the game? Did you see anything? Anyone suspicious? Hear the other team talking about something other than the game? Threatening?" Stiles's dad is back to being the Beacon Hills sheriff.

"No sir, I didn't. But if I find out who did this, I'll bury them into the ground." Derek does the Derek Glare under his brooding eyebrows, and the Sheriff recognizes his similar threat to Stiles's attackers and smiles briefly. But it vanishes, "you understand that if I'm going to let a murder suspect, even if exonerated, date my son that you are responsible for him. For his safety? You _will_ take care of him. I don't want any excuses. I'll be watching you. I have eyes all around this town. If you so much as place a finger where it shouldn't be-"

"Dad!" Stiles interrupts, embarrassed all over again.

"-I'll hunt you down and you won't be given a fair trial. When it comes to my family, being vigilante is the only way I do things."

"Of course," Derek sits up and nods. The Sheriff does the same in approval.

"Not a single finger or toe out of line, you gotta it? One chance, that's all you get. I somehow trust my son's decision, even if it can be somehow unreliable at times. Well, most of the time."

"Hey!" Stiles quips again.

"Yes sir." Derek side-smirks at Stiles.

"And you, Stiles." The Sheriff points at his son.

"Me?" Stiles points at himself.

"Yeah you, you had better figure things out regarding this Lydia girl, I don't want you to go and break this guy's heart because you are still pining after some girl."

"She's not some girl!" Stiles protests over Derek's light scoff that clearly states there is no way his _heart_ could be _broken _by some puny human.

"Exactly what I mean," his dad narrows his eyes at him.

"Uh – why are you defending _his_ heart? I'm your son!" Stiles accuses.

"Consider it payback," the Sheriff stands up.

"For what?"

"Not telling me you're dating. Now, let's have lunch, both of you, I gotta go in a half an hour." He waves the two off the couch, complimenting Derek helping Stiles up.

"This is a lot of abuse for a guy that was abused." Stiles mumbles, strongly gripping Derek's supporting hand as he stumbles on his bad leg.

"Stiles…" Derek chides, glancing at the Sheriff. Their eyes contact and the older man nods. They both know Stiles has his own way of dealing with the bad things.

"Come on," the Sheriff takes over and motions Derek through to the kitchen. He stops Stiles for a moment, "he doesn't talk much, does he?"

"He can if you get him going."

"Hmm."

And so, the Sheriff does indeed, 'try to get him going' by asking more uncomfortable questions as they sit down for lunch, prepared by Stiles and a helpful Derek. "Do you have a job?" Stiles answers for him, "at a kennel," Derek daggers him with a glare and Stiles smirks; "Where do you live?" "Do you have any other siblings?" "Have you gone to college?" "Have you actually committed any crimes that I should be aware of?" the list goes on. Stiles is thankful when his dad pulls his car keys out of his pocket and shrugs on his jacket.

"Well, let me know if you remember anything about the game, Derek. Jackson can't remember anything, neither can Stiles, and there are no known witnesses, so we have no leads." The Sheriff adds before he is again to leave.

"Yes, yes, goodbye – wait what did you say?" Stiles stops nudging his dad out the front door.

"I was actually talking to Derek -"

"No, about Jackson, what did you say?" Stiles sneaks a look at Derek behind him, who looks alarmed.

"Didn't you hear? There was a miscommunication at the hospital, Jackson is alive. He is still committed for testing and recuperating from being stabbed. Didn't someone tell you? Scott?" The Sheriff looks confused by Stiles and Derek's confused expressions.

"I-I thought he was dead?" Stiles shifts his weight off his bad leg.

"Like I said, there was a miscommunication. He had some kind of drug in his system that had his body functions slowed down to the point of no detection, and all this other medical crap. Either way, he is on the road to recovery. I thought you'd be a little happier; he is one of your friends, isn't he?"

"Yeah, we – we are. And – and I am, but I'm just, surprised. I thought he was dead."

"You should go see him, I'll sure he'd be happy to see you. And remember Derek what I told you." And with that the Sheriff departs with a stern point of his finger at Derek.

Stiles falls against the wall with his shoulder taking the blunt force. "How is that possible, I thought Scott said Gerard made Jackson kill himself?"

"I don't know." Derek is stiff and looks like he wants to pace to help his thoughts.

"That reminds me, what happened to Erica and Boyd, they were taken by Gerard's henchmen? I saw them. They were strung up by electrified wires… jeezus." Stiles slips back into remembering the things he'd rather not remember.

"They were released. They said that Chris let them go."

"Gerard's crazy, threatening son? That is out to get Scott?"

"Sure."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I don't believe it either. They must have something planned." Stiles watches Derek clench his fists.

"Well, maybe we should go see Jackson? Figure out what that is all about."

"Tomorrow," Derek grabs part of Stiles's undamaged arm and tugs. "You need to rest, you're about to tip over, and I'm _not _carrying you up stairs."

"But why not?"

"Because I said so."

"Meanie." Stiles hobbles willingly to the staircase.

"Whiny."

* * *

Being back at school is… weird. Stiles's dad drives him in the squad car just for the effect but it turns out to be a bad idea. Once he struggles out of the passenger side it is like he gives permission for the entire school to turn and gawk at him.

He had figured out a way to get his cane: complaining Derek's ear off about it until the guy actually went out and bought him one. It isn't fancy, but it does its job being stylish. Stiles wanted to wear sunglasses and suit but for some reason no one thought that was a good idea. Even the sunglasses, which Stiles reasoned would be to cover up the dark circles. But, of course, Derek has to rain on his parade and make him look like a miracle with recovering from his injuries so quickly. His dad is still gaping at that fact and has demanded to ship Stiles to the hospital for an investigation instead of Stiles going to school, but he managed to elude his dad's plan. Really, he just wants to persuade his quest for normalcy.

Derek actually stayed for dinner last night where he made meatloaf, baked potatoes, and a bowl of mix vegetables. And every thing tasted _fantastic_. Stiles couldn't believe it. A hidden talent. Derek just mumbled something about nearly dying from Laura's cooking and had to learn how to fend for himself. Stiles doesn't care, he is now going to invite Derek over for every mealtime.

"You can come home at lunch it things aren't going good. I put a note in your backpack." The Sheriff sticks his head has far as it can go over into the passenger side to see his son.

"Got'cha, but I should be good, dad. See ya." Stiles leans tentatively, still wary of testing his new limits given by Derek's treatment. "Thanks."

And so, his journey begins. He shifts his backpack on his shoulder, it uncomfortably rubbing on a healing burn. Fisting his cane, he limps his way across the sidewalk and tries not to think about the staircase. Everyone is staring at him like they are trying to figure out which option to go with: 1) congratulation him on a winning them the state championship, 2) pity him for being kidnapped and beaten and burned, or 3) just plain ignore him because the first two options aren't good enough to conquer the awkwardness. Stiles really wishes everyone will pick option three. Yet, he completely forgot about his fellow lacrosse-mates that are obligated by being on a team. Danny is standing at the base of the steps; he looks like he has been waiting a while.

"Hey man." He greets, looking tired.

"Yo." Stiles waves his cane at him.

"Nice cane." Danny points and reaches out, "gimme your bag."

"You gunna rummage through it?"

"No, I don't wanna see your porn. Now hand it over." Danny practically yanks it off his back, but it a kind, gentle, Danny way. He swings it over his shoulder and smiles. "Can you make it?" He glances at the staircase.

"Dude, have a little faith, I'm not completely invalid." And so with new ambition, Stiles masters the staircase. Everyone looks like they want to clap when he makes it to the top. He rubs his bad leg; disappointed how little Derek did for it compared to his other injuries. He still aches but he can move with a little vigor now. He isn't some old man anymore. More like a middle-aged one.

"Have you seen Scott?" Stiles sighs, asking Danny who trooped slowly up the steps with him. Danny shakes his head in denial but then a familiar voice comes from the school.

Scott, he must have smelled him or was patiently waiting, comes bursting through the school doors, banging them against the frame.

"Stiles!" He goes in for a hug but stops before crushing Stiles. He awkwardly wraps his arms lightly around Stiles and pats his on the back. "Should you back so soon?"

"I'll see ya in class," Danny senses the bromantic moment and bids his farewell.

"Hey, thanks man." Stiles says as Danny passes Scott his backpack.

"No problem. Trying to do what I can." Danny eyes downcast and Stiles knows he is thinking of Jackson.

Stiles goes back to address Scott's concern, "and yeah, my dad thinks it'd be better for my psyche if I got back to my routine instead of being alone in my room with my thoughts." A complete lie but a very convincing one. Hell, it could be the truth if not for what Stiles's dad really said. But Scott does really need to know that his dad figures if Stiles can be up to funny business with a strange man in his bed, he sure as hell can go to school. Which, of course, dampened Stiles's plan to infiltrate the hospital, specifically the room holding Jackson, and figure out why he isn't dead. This led to a very well-timed shoving Derek behind his bedroom door when his dad busted in, telling him to get ready for school. He didn't want to explain why Derek was again in his room without ever being caught walking through the front door.

Scott grimly nods in acceptance to Stiles's explanation. "Come on, let's get to class. Everyone has been asking me about you, if you are okay, and stuff. I didn't really know what to tell them." Scott rambles as they walk. Well, Scott walks, Stiles hobbles. They both get stares and humble nods from their teammates. It's been a rough win. If they only knew the real reasons. The other team is still being investigated by Sheriff Stilinski but with both victims not drawing any lines to their leads, the police department is having a hard time keeping those kids from being in school and not in a jail cell. Stiles takes this with a pound of guilt on his heart because he may dabble on the law's firm line, he does want to do his duty as the sheriff's son.

"So, did you hear about Jackson?" Scott whispers, weeding away people threatening to impede Stiles.

"Yeah, about that, what the hell?"

"I'm not sure. My mom went with him in the ambulance, and they had pronounced him dead. But something happened when he was in the morgue. One of the morticians went in to get him, and he was laying on the table, awake. My mom is his nurse, so she said that he's been mumbling weird things and has this weird sticky stuff on his skin. They don't know what happened, but the doctors ruled it has some kind of toxin that made his life signs so weak they couldn't be detected. And the sticky stuff is the toxin that his body is pushing out." Scott breathes and they enter the English room. Everyone cranks around to look at them like animals in a cage. Stiles smiles and tries to think of something witty to say, but he is not use to all the attention. Plus, the teacher is up in his business.

"Stiles, hun, you let me know if anything comes up and you need to leave, alright?" Miss Teedres says good-naturedly, but Stiles feels a little embarrassed and nods.

They go the back of the room where two seats must have been left for them. Stiles drops into the chair and sighs. It's heaven to be off of his leg. Scott deposits his backpack at his feet and slides into the desk in front of him.

"So, Jackson stabbed himself?" Stiles reopens their discussion.

Scott pivots, "yeah, Gerard made him do it. I don't know why, though… I thought he wanted to kill Jackson, but then again, he won't have anything to threaten us with. Jackson was his weapon."

Stiles hums in thought and leans back. "Maybe, since Jackson isn't dead, it was trap?"

"But for what? Who? It doesn't make any sense." Scott taps his fingers anxiously on the back of his seat. "All that did happen was you being taken."

"Which didn't surmount to anything except putting me into the hospital for a couple of days. Gerard only took me to get to Derek. And that worked so well." Stiles pulls up his backpack and digs for his English notebook, noticing only two minutes until the bell.

"He should have done something. _I_ should have done something. I should have looked harder." Scott pleads at Stiles with his brown eyes, "I'm so sorry, Stiles."

"Dude, I told you, it's okay. At least you tried. Derek knew where I was and didn't even send in the cavalry. Or do some secret ninja technique and break in." Stiles still as a bitter taste in his mouth about that and can't get it washed out. So, he just complains a little more about it.

"What? Why didn't he call me! We could have done something!" Scott slams his fist on the desk, making the surrounding classmates jump. He apologizes and ducks his head. "What the hell was he thinking?"

"I don't know, man. He said there was protection up around the house so he couldn't get in but still…" Stiles is cut off when the bell rings and everyone shuffles into their seats. That is when Allison comes scrambling in through the door, holding her bag to her chest and looking frazzled. She flies into a desk in the front row since it is usually the last row to be filled and sighs.

"Glad you could join us Miss Argent." Miss Teedres doesn't appreciate tardies.

"Sorry, sorry. C-car trouble." She mutters. The class snickers. It is unusual to see Allison turned upside down. She is normally primed and proper at school.

"And about her," Stiles whispers knowing Scott can hear him just fine, "I think I remember seeing her at the hospital. Did she come and see me?"

"Yeah." Scott nods quietly, "she just said that she didn't mean for that to happen to you and she was sorry."

"Seriously?" Stiles is a little surprised.

"Yeah, but that was it. She left after asking me to tell you that."

"Even though it was her fault for telling her psychotic grandfather about the bond?"

"I don't think she predicted what Gerard was planning on doing. How could anyone?" Scott defends.

"Ah, I would have thought it would have been kinda obvious after everything else that he has done." Stiles rebuttals.

"Well, he's only done that stuff to non-humans. I thought Gerard would at least try to protect humans since that's what the Argents are supposed to do.

"Guess Gerard's gone rouge, then." Stiles groans when twinge of pain goes through his side at the thought of Gerard.

"You okay?" Scott worries, looking over his shoulder.

"Just delightful."

* * *

Chemistry, a class that Stiles really regrets taking. It sounded like a good idea at the time, but what's it doing to his grade now makes Stiles think it really wasn't worth it. Nevertheless, he plops down into a stool and tucks into the black lab table. It's the period before lunch, but Stiles is seriously considering taking a nap. This really was too much activity for him. After four real days of recovery he still isn't quite right. He did doze off during pre-calculus and ended up being an alarm for anyone else that did. A brief vision of the burning thermal lance approaching his eyeball had him shouting and flailing in his desk. Whether the class gawking at him or the teacher consoling him was more embarrassing, he is uncertain. But nonetheless, he ducked out of the class saying he was going to the guidance office when really he hid in the locker room until the bell rang.

He is super-duper glad his father thought ahead and put an excuse note in his bag. He hauls his backpack onto the table and rummages for it, causing the delayed reaction of acknowledging the person sitting down across from him. He figures its Scott until out of the top of his eyes he notices cleavage. Snapping his head up in alert, he sees Lydia smiling at him in a lovely v-neck blouse and dangly gold earrings twirled in her strawberry blonde locks.

"L-Lydia, h-hi." Stiles slides his bag over and leans across the table. "Not that I'm not ecstatic about you sitting here, with me, by ourselves, but why are you sitting with me?" He glances at Scott who's finally entered the classroom and looking a little shell-shocked by who is occupying his spot.

"Double negatives are _not_ attractive to use. But, because of what happened, I'll let it go, _this time._" Lydia flips her hair and pouts her lips.

"Thank you." Stiles is honored by her forgiveness.

"So, are you alright?" She leans in, which does wonderful things to her blouse, and Stiles studies her beautiful green eyes to focus.

"Yeah, I'm doing better. Thanks." He grins pleasantly, "and thanks for visiting me in the hospital, I remember seeing you."

"You do?" Lydia looks a little surprised.

"Yeah, sorry I didn't say anything. The medicine made me a little loopy. I probably would have said something really embarrassing anyway."

"You did actually. You kept saying how much you loved me and other random things like that." She looks unfazed while Stiles fumbles a little on his chair. She knows his feelings but hearing her say it so casually makes him want to crawl into a hole.

"O-oh, did I? Haha…" Mr. Harris starts up before the bell rings and dictates the lesson plan for that day. It doesn't sound good. He is mentioning an equation Stiles doesn't remember ever hearing.

"Hey," Lydia whispers, which is unlike her because she is usually diligent in class, "I want to go see Jackson with you in hospital. I haven't seen him since… the game."

"Wif-with me?" Stiles has his head propped up with his arm on the table. He blunders at Lydia's declaration and knocks his sensitive nose. His eyes water, "h-how come? Shouldn't you go with Danny, y'know, his best friend?"

"No, I want to go with you. Since you had a similar experience I thought maybe he'd find it easier to talk about what happened to him. They said he hasn't been talking much. He won't say anything about the game." She gets a far off look that sticks a stake in Stiles.

"Yeah, sure. We could go at lunch, I don't think I'm gonna stay for the rest of the day. I've got a note. I can add your name. I'm pretty good at forging my dad's handwriting. You'll have to drive 'cause I don't have my jeep-"

"Mr. Stilinski, I have been told to treat you with special delicacy in light of the recent events that have befell you but there is no good reason for allowing you to talk during my lesson." Mr. Harris saunters up to their table. "A warning. That is all I'm going to give you."

"Thanks. That's the nicest you've ever been to me." Stiles smiles.

"Don't push it." He glances at Lydia and saunters away.

"Fine, but that cane has to go. It's ugly, and I'm not going to be seen with it." Lydia has the final say, and they go on pretending to listen to Mr. Harris. Well, at least, that is what Stiles does.

* * *

Hospitals aren't what they say they are. They are a lot nicer and not as white. Plus, there aren't plastic chairs for visitors to sit in that cause major butt-numbage. Instead, there are chairs that are nicely padded and even in the long-term rooms there are cozy sofas to rest the weary souls. This is kind of what Jackson's room looks like when Stiles and Lydia enter. The walls are off-white and brown, comfortable coaxing chairs in the corners, and the lighting is adjustable so there isn't florescent glare stabbing at your eyes. Stiles tries to remember if his room was like this but he can't remember. It seems so long ago, or it happened to someone else. As much as Stiles wishes the latter, he would never want anyone to experience what he did. The thought only makes his leg ache and his hobble more hobbly, especially now that he is without the aid of his cane. It's left lonely in his locker.

"Hey, Jackson." Lydia says softly and approaches Jackson's bed timidly. She scoops his hand into her polished nails.

Jackson looks like he is dozing and starts to wake upon contact. Stiles hovers behind Lydia and watches Jackson awake while looking for signs of kanima or some other threatening supernatural looking beast.

"His hand is wet and slimy." Lydia says but doesn't let go, which surprises and doesn't surprise Stiles. He imagines her freaking out and calling for sanitizer if she were touching anyone but Jackson.

"L-Lydi-ia?" Jackson slurs, twitching and looking disoriented.

"Hey, sweetie, how are you?" Lydia lightly sits on the edge of his mattress and brushes aside his bangs with her free hand.

"L-Lydia?" He is still confused. Stiles doesn't know why. He was the one confused when she came and visited him. This all makes perfect sense, minus him being here. He shifts awkwardly and looks for something to lean on. He does and doesn't want to be here. And now, the more he thinks about it, the more it he is conflicted with his feelings as being a part of a threesome in Jackson's room. He wonders how he'd feel if it was him and Derek, having a good time interrogating Jackson with some funky hospital lights like they had planned. But being here with Lydia, having been _asked _to accompany her in a, begrudging, dark time in her life, is almost too much. He's wished on a shooting star many-a-time for a moment like this to happen. Even though, self-inflicted stab wound or not, Jackson needs to exit stage left.

Stiles studies Lydia's strawberry blonde locks catching every shimmer of light in the room and her curves ripened by her awkward position on the side of the bed. So much shit has happened he hasn't had time to stop and appreciate the sight of Lydia. Stiles is probably smiling really weirdly behind her right now but can't do anything about it. He is just grateful Jackson is too medicated to tell.

Which segues into the main obstacle making this fine little moment not so fine. There she is, petting and cooing over him like he hasn't been ignoring her and treating her like shit for the past month. Stiles just doesn't understand the appeal of him: his arrogance, his bad grades, his smug little smile when he uses Stiles's body as a goal net. Sure, he's attractive but that can only do so much, right? Stiles knows there is a deep end to Lydia's seemingly shallow waters, so why she wades there with Jackson is beyond him. But that won't stop him from – something tugs in him, striking him hard with irritation and a deep sense of disappointment. It impacts so forcefully inside of Stiles that he stumbles into the IV stand, but manages to keep everything up right. Holy cheese and crackers, what the hell?

"I'm here, Jackson. I'm here…" Her voice wavers and Stiles senses waterworks on the horizon. Lydia didn't even notice his little battle with gravity.

He leans on the IV stand as he scopes the room for tissues. There are some sticking out of a box on the counter, but it is at least a good ten feet hobble. That's a long distance, and Jackson's room was at the end of the hallway. He is a little breathless and his leg is screaming at him to sit the hell down. The cushiony chair on the other side of the bed looks worth the effort, so Stiles makes his great pilgrimage.

"Hey, Jackson." He greets as he limps, "good game, we won, thanks to yours truly. Paid a good price for it though."

Jackson stares at him for a while and then gasps. "Stiles?"

"That'd be me." Almost there.

"Do you remember what happened at the game, Jackson?" Lydia shakes his hand, her green eyes gleaming.

"Game?"

"How about that game, huh?" Four more steps. "You weren't much help though, just standing there in some kind of trance. What was that all about?"

"Stiles, stop it." Lydia glares at him. "You were great out there, baby."

"You actually weren't. Ah, yes!" Made it, Stiles flops into the chair and sighs, "and I was tortured by some freaks while you were stabbed out on the field. Guess we both had a pretty rough night, huh?"

"Stiles!" Lydia snaps. "I thought you were going to help, not be rude."

"I am helping. I'm telling him what happened."

"You could be a little nicer about it. It was a traumatic experience for him to go through, don't make it into a joke."

"Well, Lydia, I'm sorry that being beaten and burned as made my sense of humor a little raw." Stiles tries to say this with as little condescending sarcasm as he can. Just for her, he will try.

But Lydia understands because she frowns and then pouts her glossy lips. She flickers her eyes over Stiles's face. What she is looking for, Stiles doesn't know, but it makes him giddy to be looked at so intently by her.

"You're right." She says lightly and sharply. Stiles's eyebrows raise, but she's already turning to Jackson again. "Are you feeling a bit better now?"

"A little." He mumbles. "Thirsty."

"I'll go get you some water." She squeezes his hand and rubs his shoulder before rising off the bed. "I'll be right back, okay?"

Jackson turns to stare out the window, but the curtains are drawn so before Lydia leaves she opens them and tuts about the nurses not doing their jobs properly.

Now its just the two of them. Stiles is ready to get down to business.

"So, tell me what you really remember. I know you remember, so no bullshit, got it?" He leans forward and rests his elbow on his good knee.

"What do you mean?" Jackson looks less glassy eyed but very tired.

"You know what I mean. Why'd Gerard make you try to kill yourself?"

"I don't know that man is crazy. Besides, it's not like I could help it." Jackson is briefly the old Jackson before sinking into his pillow.

"Could or _can_? Are you still the kanima?"

"I-I'm not sure." Jackson holds his hands out in front of him like he is expecting claws. Stiles is expecting claws but all they see is normal finger nails and no scales.

"So, going out on a hypothetical limb here, but by 'killing,'" air quotes, "yourself, per se, you have made the cycle go full circle, a killer that kills killers has killed himself?" It makes a lot more sense in Stiles's head.

"Wha-?" Jackson gapes, not being the sharpest tool in the shed.

"Just, you're better. You're healed." Stiles sits back and gasps. "I knew we should have killed you sooner."

"I thought it was supposed to me that kills myself?"

"Details, details. But I guess that's a good thing." Stiles's eyes flash to the door as Lydia's strawberry blonde locks fill up the door window. Her voice peeling through the door frame as she talks with a nurse.

"Hey," Jackson quickly whispers before Lydia and the nurse come in, "I thought Peter was dead."

* * *

**Don't be worried but I'm not sure where I'm going to go with that last line. It will go somewhere though! It is kinda of based off of a theory I saw considering the blue colour of Jackson's eyes...**

**Like I said better, I'm sorry for the now slow updates. I hope the longer chapter kinda made up for it, even though there was a lot of filter moments. It's build up.  
**

**As for Lydia, it must be done. Stiles isn't going to give her up with ease. But we'll see how that all comes into play.  
**

**Thank you again for the wonderful reviews, followers, and favorites!  
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	13. Bloodied Feet Across the Hallowed Ground

_**IT'S ALIIIIIIVVVVE! **_**Hey. So, I am a terrible human being. I know. I can't begin to express my sincerest apologizes for my absence. There has been a hella of a lot of changes in my life, and I needed to spend time addressing them. I am sure that can be related to in some form or fashion. BUT. It no longer matters because I am BACK! And the end is NEAR. And the season PREMIERE IS TOMORROW NIGHT! Talk about motivation! And because of that, I had to release this. I know... it's a set up chapter but hold on to your Sterek because the next chapter is going to be INTENSE. **

**And I'm shutting up.**

Bloodied Feet Across the Hallowed Ground

* * *

"What?" Lydia barks like a snappy dog. Apparently, her hearing is phenomenal. "Excuse me; we need a moment in private. Can you please leave?" She says as sweetly as Lydia can get to the nurse following her heels. The nurse does a good impression of a gaping fish and kindly backs away in fear of Lydia's wicked glare. She utters something like a, "but I have to-" and that is when the door is shut in her face.

Lydia swirls around like a tornado and comes at Stiles and Jackson. "What did you say?" They don't say anything. "Tell me!"

"Wha-what do you mean, Lydia?" Stiles stutters.

"No, what Jackson said," her eyes soften slightly. "What did you say about Peter?"

"Wait, how do you know about Peter? That is supposed to be a secret, or at least a silent as the grave kind of secret. Cause, y'know after all, the guy should be _dead._ " Stiles glances at Jackson.

"But he isn't dead, right?" Jackson looks at Stiles like he regularly checks on Peter's condition.

"Ah, well. He was burned to a charred piece of meat and had this throat cut open, and then buried under a good six feet of dirt. So…uh, I'm pretty sure? But Lydia, does that mean you remember him from prom night? Do you know what he did to-?" Stiles gnaws his lips shut.

"Ye-es." Lydia says slowly and very carefully, like she is unsure if that is the right answer. "I just- Sometimes, I see- hear-" She twists her fingers and pouts her lips. "It's really quite stupid, actually. I mean, I was attacked by some animal, it is completely normal to experience some kinda of trauma from it. Of course, I'm fine, but sometimes I think-"

"You're not?" Stiles adds kindly.

"I don't understand. It is like a dream most of the time." She looks out the window all philosophically.

"And the other half of the time it's a frickin' nightmare." Stiles rubs his leg, "but how much do you know, Lydia?

"Only pieces," she continues to stare out at a tree. Stiles feels nervous for it. He is always nervous when Lydia graces him with her gaze.

"Lydia?" Jackson whispers from the bed, like a spooky ghost from a dark corner. It makes Lydia and Stiles jump because he looks like a spooky ghost with his dark eyes and shallow cheekbones. Even so, he still looks like an underwear model. An overpaid, overrated underwear model, of course.

"I'm fine." Her voice wobbles, but she straightens up and the world seems a little better when she smiles. "I just don't understand. How can Peter be alive if he was killed?"

"That is a very good question." Stiles gasps, "I knew I should have gotten a zombie survival kit. Werewolves, kanimas, and now zombies? Matt was right about something… this is turning into a frickin' Halloween party."

"Stiles, seriously?" Lydia tuts, "but Jackson, how do you know he is alive?"

"Even better question. Actually, the best question have I ever heard. How is it that you know he's risen from the dead, oh wise one? You've been either a nasty scaly monster, walking around in a trace, clocked out, or all of the above."

All eyes are on Jackson as he lounges on his hospital bed like a seal on the shore. An elephant seal. You can see him thinking, pondering, and dusting off those unused brain cells. Then, a light turns on, and he flickers his eyes at both Lydia and Stiles. "I don't know."

Lydia shifts on her feet and folds her arms. Stiles slouches in his chair, his leg protesting but his butt praising because this chair does somehow manage to cause butt-numbage despite first appearances.

"That's not helpful there, buddy. How about one more time?" Stiles gently rubs his leg.

"I don't know, I just… know. Doesn't that make sense?"

"It's a ten on the scale of 'doesn't make sense' where ten is 'not a good enough reason.'"

Jackson huffs and considers at his hands, "I think… I remember Gerard saying something about bring Peter back… or talking to him."

"Hold up, there is a difference between Peter being back and being _brought_ back. That means he is still getting eaten by worms under the dirt somewhere." Stiles eyeballs Jackson. "Get your facts straight."

"I don't know what's straight anymore!" Jackson growls.

"Don't we all?" Stiles rolls his eyes a little more dramatically than perhaps necessary for the current topic.

"What?" Lydia catches this. Stiles back peddles.

"How about we go back to you, Lydia? You said you've seen Peter, talked to him?"

She nods and tucks her lovely locks behind her bedazzled ear.

"What does he look like? Zombie? Rotting corpse? Well, that's the same thing… is he -"

"That's not important, dumbass." Jackson chips, straining his IV-ed arm. Stiles smirks as Lydia rushes to fuss with it, and Jackson growling at her to stay away. Karma, bitches.

"Alright, alright. Knock a guy down. But Lydia, you've gotta tell us what you've heard from Peter. What he is planning on doing?"

"I don't know. What you said, Jackson, with bringing Peter back that sounds right. But they need something. Someone."

"Someone? Someone like who? Scott, Derek, Jesus?"

Lydia scoffs at the last suggestion, and sits down on Jackson's bed again. Her polished fingertips walk along Jackson's stupid chiseled, Roman jaw. "Despite everything, I am just glad you are alright."

"Lydia…" Jackson's head leans into her touch, "I'm- I've done… so many bad things."

Stiles does his own scoffing, "you can say that again, pal."

The couple ignores him.

"No, sweetie, you weren't in control of yourself. You can't make yourself responsible for what others were making you do."

"I should have been stronger. That's all I've ever wanted to be is stronger."

"You are the strongest person I have ever met, Jackson. You have no idea because all you do is judge yourself."

"It is because I know I can be better. Perfect."

Lydia does a cute, little laugh that Stiles is sure she will never use for him, but it tugs at his heart strings nevertheless. "Jackson, you always say you are perfect, the best. And y'know what? You're right," she leans in closer to him, "that's because you are the best you."

They do this thing with their mouths that makes Stiles close his eyes, and his stomach does a somersault of envy. Why does he subject himself to this kind of torture? At less the other kind he was made to endure was against his will. This is completely voluntary.

He peeks to see them resting her foreheads together, making gooey-lovey eye contact, and Stiles decides he is done for today.

"Okay folks," he struggles out of the chair, "that's a wrap. I think we are good to go, right Lydia? We should probably go and find Scott so we can tell him about the Resurrection of Peter."

"I'm going to stay here a little longer. You can go."

"Ahh, but you might remember something useful from your time dream-talking with Peter."

"I don't think so."

"You never know."

"Doubtful."

"Possible."

Lydia peers over her shoulder at Stiles who is right behind her looking like a puppy really wanting the ball to be thrown.

"Bye."

"But-"

"Something's wrong." Jackson grumbles.

"I'd say so – wait, what?"

Lydia spins around, "what's wrong, babe?"

"I don't feel right." Jackson starts to shift around; his machine making more funny noises than usual. "Something's really wrong."

"Tell me what's wrong, Jackson." Lydia stands up and swipes her hands over his body, "where?"

"My legs," Jackson grits his teeth and balls his hands.

She tugs at the white, heavy sheets to expose his legs. Stiles and Lydia gasp. They are wrapped up in a gooey, oozy case of something disgusting.

"What's going on?" Jackson pushes himself up to look and gasps, "God, no, no, no. Not again. Please – " He is trying to go everywhere at once to escape the jelly cocoon.

"Hold on there, hotshot." Stiles limps over to grab Jackson's shoulders to keep him from flipping shit.

"Get away from me!" Jackson growls, his teeth in three, black and pointy rows of fangs. His arm swipes at Stiles, knocking him down with a set of five clawed fingers.

"Jackson!" Lydia yells. She hesitates between going toward him and stepping back. He is kanima-ing out.

"STAY AWAY!" He shouts. The cocoon is creeping up his torso, swaddling him up in a gross, translucent blanket. "LEAVE ME!" Jackson bellows before the jelly plasters over his head, and he goes still.

Stiles and Lydia sit in a shocked silence.

"Well –" Stiles breaks it, "that was exciting."

"Jackson!" Lydia goes to touch the gel around his face.

"Don't! It could be poisonous!" Stiles scrambles off the ground in the most awkward way possible. "Something definitely isn't right with this. I thought he was cured. I mean, that was the longest I've seen him lucent in, I don't even know. I should have figured something was weird… he only insulted me once in that whole time."

"Stiles, would you just be serious for a second? All you are doing is making a joke out of this whole thing!" Lydia yips at him.

"Do you see me laughing, Lydia?" Stiles barks back.

They stare at each other.

"I'm sorry. I'm just freaked the fuck out." Stiles blushes in embarrassment. This is the second time he's spazzd out – in not the normal way – in front of Lydia.

"I get it." The tension deflates.

"We've gotta go find Scott and Derek. C'mon!" Stiles marches awkwardly toward the door.

"What about Jackson?" Lydia tentatively trails behind him.

"We don't have time to worry about that."

"We can't just let the nurse find him like this!" Lydia stops him by clutching at his hand.

"God!" Lydia is holding his hand. "Fine, I'll just call Scott." She drops his hand, but it was so worth it.

Stiles fishes out his phone right when Melissa opens the door with the nurse from before trailing her.

"Stiles!" She is surprised.

"Mrs. McCall! Man, I've never been happier to see you!" Stiles means this.

"Excuse me?"

"Aw, we have a problem." Stiles points at the incapacitated Jackson, and Melissa is on it like fly on honey.

"Nancy can you go check on Mr. Horner please, I've got this handled." She shooes out the nurse once more.

"But- but-" It just isn't her day, but Stiles sincerely believes she'd rather be giving Mr. Horner a thorough sponge bath than deal with this.

"What happened?" Melissa clucks when the other nurse is beyond the closed door. "What the hell is this?"

"Your guess is as good as ours at this point. He was sunshine and daisies up until now. Now, well, he looks kinda like a sea cucumber, a poisonous one. I'd suggest not touching him." Stiles explains.

"So, what do you want me to do with him?"

"Right now, just watch him. Don't let anyone in this room. I can't really ask you to keep him from leaving in the event that he wakes up. If that is case, I would strongly recommend that you get the hell out of here. Or else, Scott will probably kill me. Any questions?"

"Ah- no, I guess. Where's Scott?"

"That is a fantastic question. I'll call you when we find him."

"He isn't picking up his phone." Lydia is five steps of everyone with her cellphone at hand. "Should I try Alison?"

"No. Yes. How about we talk about it out the way out?" Stiles catches up to Lydia at the door, "you sure you've got everything?" He says to Melissa.

"I hope so."

"Me too."

* * *

"There is a reason that people have cellphones. It is so they can be accessible when they need to be accessed. Damnit, Derek, pick up your God damn cellphone!" Stiles scowls at his phone like it can do something about that fact that the Alpha is neglectful.

Stiles and Lydia power through the hospital, rehashing what they have learned and what they don't know. A plan of action is still in process. The first step is getting into Stiles's jeep and motoring it to the obviously places where Scott maybe located, then it's up in the air from there.

They muscle open the doors, dodge a few nurses with wheelchairs occupied with patients awaiting their rides, and make their way to the parking lot.

"Let's go to school first; he maybe at lacrosse practice. If not, then his house. Keep calling him though." Stiles tells Lydia is who is a good few feet ahead of him.

"And Alison; she should know something about this right? Because I'm the last to know about any of this." Lydia glances back, making Stiles hesitate his foot for a moment. "Scott's mom even knows about this whole thing before me, isn't that right?"

"Ahh, would it make you feel better to know my dad doesn't know a single thing about this?"

"No."

Lydia sashays ahead as Stiles appreciates her practiced movements before there is tire squealing right behind him.

Stiles knows what going on before it happens, but he is too slow to move at the rate his brain is. "Lydia, RUN!" Is all he is able to do when hands pull at his arms and haul him into a black SUV.

"STILES!" Lydia is shouting in confusion when men in black go charging out of the vehicle at her. They shove her head into a black bag and scoop her up. She is screaming and fussing in one of the men's arms as the hustle her over.

"Let her go!" Stiles does his own screaming and fussing until there is an arrow tip poking at his cheek, and the dark eyes of Alison peering down at him from the front passenger seat. "Hello Stiles."

"Alison." He gasps, barely noticing his arms being tied behind his back. He gasps until when they are drawn tight. What is she doing here? Wait, that is a stupid question. But why is she looking like she running the show?

"Hello, Stiles. How's your leg doing?" It's the Ogre at the wheel.

Stiles's head starts spinning as Lydia lands next to him in the SUV, no longer struggling but moving in slow jerks. The door slams shut like angry thunder and the two lug-heads wedge themselves in the seats around Stiles and Lydia with the other oaf. Ogre puts the pedal to the metal and shoots them out of the parking lot and onto the road.

"Now what? Gunna torture us some more?" Stiles spits out even though he is shaking.

"Maybe," the Ogre chuckles and looks at Alison, "what do you say, Miss Argent?"

"Grandpa wants you." She smirks.

"Including Lydia? She's got nothing do with this, Alison, let her go!" Stiles thrusts forward only to have one of the minions yank him back down.

"Both of you are going with us."

"She's your friend, Alison! I don't care if you've got some girlfriend revenge vendetta against Scott, and because I'm the best friend I am pulled into it by default, Lydia is your best friend!"

"She's just someone to talk to. To make use out of. She isn't my friend." Alison says this without believing it because Stiles doesn't believe it. There's no way.

"You don't mean that."

"I mean exactly what I say! Lydia isn't my friend. Now, shut up or else I'll make you."

Stiles sneers, "I don't know what Scott ever saw in you."

Alison flickers her eyes to one of the oafs, which causes a chain reaction of a twitch, a hit, and a knock out.

* * *

Stiles isn't happy about his new lifestyle of waking up in random people's house without knowing how he got there. That shit's for college. Nevertheless, he must be hungover or still drunk because the room is spinning, and he can't seem to figure out how to sit up without flopping around like a fish.

"S'apping?" He slurs, clutching at the angry florescent light above him. "Br-ight."

"Why is he awake? I thought that monkshood was supposed to keep him quiet." Alison. Stiles knows her "attempting to sound evil" voice anywhere.

"It takes a lot to keep this one quiet, isn't that right, Marlin?" The shivers down Stiles's spine must be because of Gerard. That laugh could only be that of the Ogre.

"Very true, Mr. Argent. He just doesn't know how to shut his mouth." Stiles gets a pat on the face that he doesn't quiet feel but his vision does a 180.

"No…" He growls and swats limply.

The Ogre grabs his hand, "what happen to those pretty little marks I put on you? You didn't like them? Or did you little mutt not like that his mate was marked by someone else?"

"Enough, we don't have much time anymore now that everything is in motion. Peter, what is our next move?" Gerard asks.

Stiles hand was on fire when the Ogre let go of it, making him groan and roll back and forth on the ground.

"First we need to distract Scott, we can't have him interfering when it counts." Lydia speaks. Stiles stops moving so that his swimming vision could take a moment to correct itself. He sees a blob of strawberry blonde that is Lydia stepping under the angry florescent lighting. He can't tell her expression but from the sound of her voice, it isn't her.

"So it's true. She is a werewolf?" Alison, a silhouette of black, spits.

"She is a rarity: a human with immunity. It would be interesting to see how far it extends in the kingdom of the supernatural. But now, she is a puppet for Peter. His poison is still in her veins; tainting her with seductions of hallucinations and suggestions. Invaluable opportunity, wouldn't you say, Alison?" Gerard explains, sounding smug as ever.

"I don't understand…"

"We can use to get to Derek. The murder of your mother."

"I still don't see why we need to rely on another one of these _murders_ for help."

"Because, child-"

"I am not a child!" Alison snaps, her form opposing toward Gerard's shadow.

"Then show me! Understand that sometimes we must make allies with our foes in order to conquer a greater foe. Derek is the enemy." Gerard's shadow engulfs Alison's.

"I- But why would Peter want to help us? And how? We killed him."

"Did we? How it is now that he speaks through your friend, Lydia?"

Alison moves away to look at Lydia who is standing there like Jackson used to: seemingly held up by invisible strings. Stiles would really like an answer too because despite his body feeling like a wet noodle, and his brains uncooked in a pot of boiling water, one thing is pretty damn obvious: he is freaking the fuck out. Silently.

"We need to address the Scott problem, I'll call him." Lydia says, whipping out her glittery phone. There is a waited silence.

"Scott." Wow, of course, now the bum answers his God damn phone.

"I know, I've been trying to reach you because Jackson woke up! Stiles and I went over to the hospital at lunch to see him. But- Scott, he's trapped inside this cocoon. I don't know what's going on. Stiles went home before it happened, and- I don't know what to do. I told your mom. She seemed to know what was going on. Scott-" Lydia explains really fast and in her panicky Lydia voice, even adding in a few gasps of breath for authenticity. Stiles isn't convinced. Peter is in there. Well, in her head. He had better not be anywhere else. However, it is enough to convince Scott because Lydia punches the end call on her phone.

"There, Scottie boy shouldn't be bothering us for a while now. How about we begin phase two."

* * *

**Monday 9/10PM MTV be there or be square. (DID YOU SEE THE SEASON 3 TRAILER ON MTV?!)**


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